


Butterfly Kisses and Narcissus

by vietbluefic



Category: The Last Unicorn - All Media Types, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: (or at least he used to be), Actor Seokjin, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - The Last Unicorn Fusion, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Jungkook, Blood and Violence, Clumsy Namjoon, Crossover, Dancer Hoseok, Everyone Has Issues, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Grumpy Yoongi, Humanity, Immortality, Innocent Taehyung, Jimin Is a Good Friend, Jimin Is a Little Shit, Lonely Seokjin, Magic, Model Seokjin, Mortality, Music, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Physical Disability, Pianist Yoongi, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Protective Yoongi, References to Depression, Underground Rapper Namjoon, Unicorns, University Student Jungkook, Yoongi Swears a Lot, platonic ot7, rap line are best friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vietbluefic/pseuds/vietbluefic
Summary: In a world forged with black-steel skyscrapers and lights that gleam like a million molten stars, there is but one unicorn left as humankind forgets in the face of technology, and magic immemorial dies down into an echo. Bewildered by this revelation, the unicorn decides to venture out beyond the safety of his lilac wood in search for the others. Along the way, he encounters six strangers who may either help or hinder his quest.A boy who may be the last descendant of the old magic. An ex-pianist drowning himself in verse and graveyard shifts. An underground rapper, purveyor of indie music and chronic bibliophile. A dancer with a sunlit smile and bleeding heart. A cat who's by no means an actual cat and doesn't even bother to hide it. A prince — the son of an acclaimed entertainment company's CEO, cloud-soft, lonely — who almost certainly knows more than he lets on. And the last unicorn.





	1. Begin

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that occurred to me a week or two ago and would not leave me alone, because I finally had the chance to read Peter S. Beagle's _The Last Unicorn_ and the beauty of that book combined with the sad loveliness of BTS's newest album "WINGS."
> 
> This will take many diverges from the original story of _The Last Unicorn_ and is also an AU for BTS, and I think it may end up sounding less and less like a fairy tale as the story continues — but I hope you enjoy it anyways.

The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and he lived alone.

His wood was tucked away in a hidden place, a secret corner of the world where the birch trees rustled new leaves and shared secrets in creaky voices — where springs ran with sweet water and the air smelled of flowers, always. Though he lived alone, as unicorns do, he was happy and free from all mortal burdens. He did not know grief, or age, or death, but instead the gentleness of budding breezes and a simple joy to watch life pass him by in the wood.

Likewise, he had little idea that he was in fact very old. Time parted around him as water around a stone. Eons ago he ceased to be the color of freshly fallen snow, but rather now glowed like pearls and starlight caught in a glass grail. His bird-bone legs were long and white; his mane was spider-silken, cloven hooves dainty yet sharper than knives. When he leaped and ran, he did so with a stirring grace which the horses and stags have forgotten. Dark eyes shone bright as a child’s and deep as the sea, and between them burst his horn like a lance of spiraled silver; it glowed with seashell light even on the blackest midnights, which the unicorn’s guileless laughter would only illuminate further.

It was always spring in the lilac wood, because the unicorn lived there, but outside the world marched onwards. While he gazed at his reflection on the spilling pools, birds trilled and gossiped above his head about a shifting universe. Raining arrows and scarlet war banners, sanded blocks arranged in pyramids, cities of stone and wood and alloyed steel. Times had changed, cultures had changed, and age-old magic — once bled deep and roiling in the earth — had thinned and dried as though between the pages of a forgotten book. So the unicorn remained in his lilac wood, isolated and thus safe from the sweeping tide of history. Under his watch generations of animals hunted and loved and died, and because he did none of these things he found himself perfectly content to do no more than observe.

Time went on. The unicorn remained.

* * *

One cool, sweet day, two humans entered the trees. The unicorn could not help the catch in his throat as both tenderness and terror rose at once, golden heartbeat quickening at the sight of them. It had been so long since he last saw human beings that he would’ve forgotten what they looked like, were it not for the fact that he remembered everything like it occurred yesterday. He was elusive as a falling snowflake, flitting through the shade of the trees, and he stole so near to the pair that the shivers of sunlight could have shone off his coat and revealed him, or the tap of his hooves on the stony riverbanks given him away. But the unicorn was wise, and he moved with absolute silence, so never did they have a clue of his presence.

The humans were male, both of them, and close enough in resemblance for the unicorn to know them as brothers. They wore colorful shirts, denim jeans, and hiking packs. Dirty boots left scuff marks where they clambered over tree roots and gray boulders on the riverbanks.

“This is such a cool spot, right?” remarked the younger: a boy in a red hoodie, all mussed black hair and freckles and white earphones. “Man, if it wasn’t so hard to get to, I’d say that we should try and come here more often. Or at least camp out a couple days, but there’s no signal here and you know how Dad throws a fit when he can't reach us within twenty-four hours. Still…you feel that, don't you?”

“Yeah,” said the elder with a tiny smile and reverence in his eyes. “I know what you’re saying.”

“I mean, it's like this place is a hundred years old.” The younger brother looked around at the breathing trees. “It's so quiet. I don't think we've been anywhere that feels the way how it does here.”

“That's ‘cause something special lives here,” the elder said and grinned. He slung an arm over his brother’s shoulders and peered up at the sky filtering through the boughs overhead. “It's probably hiding from us right now, they don't like people much. I'd give anything to see it just once, though.”

“What, a _unicorn_?” The younger snorted.

“Hey, they exist! Or at least they used to, like magic — everyone knows that. Gran always told us she saw one when she was little, that day she went out to play in her uncle’s apple orchards, remember?”

“Yeah, well, Gran’s also in a home now with Alzheimer’s. Not exactly the best resource for fairy tales.”

“But she loved it. She said she let it come over to her and put its head in her lap, and Gran would never do that. She hates animals, bad fur allergies.”

“That's not really proof.” The little brother skipped stones across the mirror surface of a pond. The water _plipp_ ed thrice, rippling. “She's told me that story, too, plus a hundred more about unicorns and that's all they are. They're just stories. Kid stuff, fantasies for little girls who want to be princesses with no allergies.”

The older boy hesitated at that. He bit his lip before saying, quietly, “Gran cries whenever she talks about the unicorn, though. Like… Like it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.”

“Dude, Gran _always_ cries that way. She's old. Anything that she remembers from when she was little makes her sob her eyes out.”

“I guess.”

The two boys continued walking after a moment more and the unicorn followed close behind. Easy silence fell over them, disturbed only by the rustle and breathing of unseen wood-creatures, and by the younger brother’s abrupt question.

“Where do you think they all went, then? The unicorns, if they don't exist anymore.”

A sad smile fell over the elder’s face. “I dunno,” he said. “Maybe they went wherever magic disappeared to.”

“Sooo…Narnia?”

“Oh, ha-ha.” He playfully punched the younger boy on the arm. “Come on, we should head back. The sun’s going down.”

Conversation veered away from magic and unicorns when the brothers turned. They chattered about idle topics, school and girls and frivolities the unicorn had no care for. But then upon reaching the edge of the treeline, the older brother paused. He tugged on the younger’s sleeve, and in the angled light of dusk, the red hoodie glowed bright as blood.

“Hang on.” The elder turned to face the lilac wood as though he’d seen the unicorn step back behind the cover of trees. He took a breath.

“So… Um. I don’t know if you’re here to be able to listen, or if you’re even real.” He glanced over at his little brother, who stared in bemusement, and had the sense to blush. “But, uh, if you are, then I just want to say: take care of yourself. My brother’s right; we’ve been all over the world and nowhere else has ever felt how this place does. You really might be the last one left. So I guess what I want to say is, please stay where you are, and stay safe. Stay happy.”

And with flushed cheeks he whirled around and grabbed his laughing brother by the elbow, hauling the both of them away from the lilac wood and back into civilization. The unicorn stood motionless beneath the green birches for a long while.

Then, for the first time in centuries, he spoke aloud in a low, low voice.

“I am the only unicorn there is…?”

* * *

_That can’t be_ , he thought. Evening fell over the lilac wood in a billowing veil, the sky painting itself indigo-black and speckled white. Night insects sang in a high hum of a song. Everywhere the unicorn stepped, there floated to him the sounds of slumbering breaths and nocturnal cries.

He’d always dwelled alone and never minded it. He had been content with the knowledge that others like him lived scattered across the globe, for a unicorn needs no more than that for company. _I’d know if the others were gone. Whatever happens to them would happen to me, too._

But he stood beneath the branching arms of a tree twisted with age, and he thought for an agonizing length of time. Unicorns are not meant to make choices, and the weight of indecision on his back bewildered him as much as a rider would have. “I could never leave this,” he whispered to the tree, who murmured in a voice layered thick with bark; the unicorn’s own voice frightened him in its unfamiliarity. “I couldn’t ever leave, not for anything. I know this wood, have known it since before it was even a single sapling. I know its every path, its every stone. This is my home.”

He walked on, passing brooks with their runny giggles and pools still and sparkling. When he dipped his head to drink, the water tasted sweeter than fruit, and the reflection looking back was a mere shadow of his true beauty.

“But…” he said, staring at the unicorn in the pool. “What if they are gone? Lost, hidden, frightened? Waiting for me?”

Again and again over the next few days the unicorn anguished about the choice before him. He said yes, then no, then yes once more. “I won’t go. Humans are silly, simple creatures. They trust only their eyes, and so just because they’ve seen no unicorns for awhile they assume right away that we’ve all vanished. It means nothing — and even if it did, what can I do? I can’t leave my wood, my trees and animals. Who’d keep them safe then? I won’t go.”

But then one warm night he awoke with the single thought of,  _Now_ filling his mind. Quickly, before hesitation could take claim, the unicorn rose to his feet and set out for the edge of his wood. His body glowed in the darkness; from the shadows hundreds of eyes watched him go with bated breath. It was as if the entire wood was awake — as if all the beasts and birds knew of his decision already.

Under the round moon the road that led out and away from the wood glowed silver, and beneath his hooves he could feel how long it was, and how harsh. The wind stroked cold hands over his face and he tasted dust wherever it touched. The unicorn looked back at his animals, his trees. Already his magic had begun to bleed away from them, shedding like petals under summer’s approach.

He swore to them and to himself that he would come back soon, whether he found the others or not. _I’ll be gone only for a little while._

Before he turned to run down the road, he took one last, deep breath of the lilac wood’s air and held it on his tongue like a flower, for as long as he could.

* * *

The long road hurried to nowhere and had no end. In a manner reminiscent of a wild river, it rushed into and through dipping valleys and craggy mountains, sweetened meadows and forests full of leaf-thick silence. It carried the unicorn on its hasty current, never allowing him a moment to stand and listen to the breezes and birds as he was used to. Road-dust powdered a thin layer on his spiraling horn, and his weightless, cloven hooves fell heavy against the stones in his path.

Heavier still, when the road turned peat-black striped white and yellow. It felt hard as steel beneath him and smelled of oil and snarling new things. He avoided walking on it whenever possible.

It was yet another sign of time — something which the unicorn had disregarded for so long but now felt drowned within. Trees changed colors and conversation each season, and the animals that gathered wonderingly around his sleeping form were worn and sometimes heavy with winter coats. The black asphalt and streetlights, too, denoted time: at night he sometimes traveled under the grimy-golden light spilled along the highway edge. The sky was cloud-blue, or pink, or red, or a gray that either wept or raged depending on how many storms could be spared.

On one such gray dawn, the unicorn ran into a man on the roadside. In a grease-stained shirt and trousers he bent over the open hood of his car, the windows of which stared at the unicorn tinted and gaping. It stank of iron, and so the unicorn stood from a distance to watch until the man straightened, wiped his brow, and saw him reflected in the windshield.

“ _Ahh!_ ” he shouted, jumping. A wrench slid out of his hand and bounced on a stone. “Where the fuck did you come from?!”

The unicorn didn't answer, only gazed with deep eyes as the man stared and swallowed. He was large with stubble peppered across his chin that he scratched at nervously. His eyes kept flickering from his car to the unicorn and back.

“Damn… You're lost, aren't you?”

After a second of hesitation, he unbuckled his belt and clumsily made a loop. The unicorn sighed half in amusement, half in an odd satisfaction. He wasn't afraid.

“I’ve been hunted before,” he said, “with drums and banners and bridles dripping with gems. Humans knew the only way to hunt me was to make the chase so amazing that I couldn't help but appear for it. Men prettied up their steeds, women prettied up themselves, and children wove flowers into garlands to throw as I passed. And even so they never caught me.”

“Easy, easy.” The man clucked his tongue, and the unicorn snorted. “Hey, come on, I'm not going to hurt you. Just gonna put this around your neck here…”

The unicorn sidestepped his first lunge, and the man fell and scraped his chin with a curse. “What would you do with me if you caught me?” he murmured. “I always wondered but never asked.”

“Shit. Tripped over my own damn feet. C’mon, don't make this difficult—” He got up and lunged again, but the unicorn slipped away like moonlight. The man swore. “Aren't you supposed to have some kind of equipment for catching a wild animal? The hell is a horse even doing in the middle of—”

“A _horse?_ ” The unicorn recoiled as though he’d been burned; in his shock and outrage he had trumpeted the word so loudly that the man cringed. “Me, a horse? That’s what you take me for?!”

“Hey, easy there, boy!” The man held up one hand in a placating gesture, even as his other coiled the belt again. “I’ll just — just tie you to the car and then make a call. Satellite service should work even out here. At least I hope it does. I’m royally fucked if animal control doesn’t show up. C’mon, horse.”

“A horse,” said the unicorn, angry and abruptly bitter. “A clumsy stallion with dirt in his mane and muddy legs. That’s what you’re trying to capture. That’s what you _see_.” And when the man leaped forward for the third time, the unicorn hooked his horn through the belt and jerked it out of the man’s grasp. It flew through the air and landed in a patch of snow-white clover. The man gaped and stared for a second into the unicorn’s dark, dark eyes. Then before he could react, the unicorn spun around and ran down the road in the blink of an eye, leaving him stunned and, for a reason only a deep, forgotten part of him could ever understand, a little emptier.

 _I can’t believe it. How did this happen? I could understand if humans had simply forgotten magic, had forgotten unicorns, or if they all hunted and killed them now. But to be unable to even_ see _us? To look right at us and find something else — what do they look like to one another then? How can they recognize trees, or the sky, or houses, or their own children?_

From then on he avoided the brightly-lit towns and tried not to follow the directions of towering, tangled phone lines. Instead he kept to the trees (which grew increasingly sparse) and the meadows (which smelled of campfires and nylon tents). He didn’t want another incident like what had happened with the man. Still, the nights when he passed through the towns that he absolutely couldn’t go around — which happened more and more often — late-lurking panhandlers and teenagers could spot him and raise up a cry. But always they’d chase after a lost white horse, not after _him_. It frightened him, because if a horse didn’t belong in this place and time, what about a unicorn? What about his people?

He looked for them as he went, but he could find nothing. It really was as if they’d all vanished.

One afternoon the unicorn’s worries and wearies were briefly laid aside when a butterfly fluttered up to him. Her wings flitted indigo and velvet, thin enough to make visible the paper veins within. When he paused and looked at her, she landed on his nose and kissed him, and her touch had the peculiar sweetness of sugared flower petals.

“I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Hello, it’s me… What’s up, pussycat?”

The unicorn could not help but laugh. “Butterfly, what are you doing out on this windy day? You will catch cold and die long before your time.”

“Because I could not stop for Death,” said the butterfly, “he kindly stopped for me. _Níl sa saol seo ach ceo_ ; _is ní bheimid beo, ach seal beag gearr_. Nought I fear, O my love — O my love!” With that, she swept up to the unicorn’s horn and danced along it.

“Do you know what I am, butterfly?”

“Shy one, shy one, shy one of my heart. Red rose, proud rose, sad rose of all my days!” the butterfly sang under her breath. She perched on the unicorn’s brow and peered into his sea-deep eyes. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Even if the whole world changes, I will only know you.”

“Say my name, then,” the unicorn pleaded. “If you know my name, tell it to me.”

“Mr. Simple, Simple! Ha!” The butterfly’s laugh glittered like the gold in sunlight or the reflection off rainbow crystals. She paused, then continued in a more somber tone, “Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart. I would break my body to pieces to call you once by your name.”

The unicorn sighed, amused and exasperated, breath fanning across the butterfly’s wings. He should have expected this. Butterflies can only ever speak in songs and poetry, whatever they pass on or happen to hear during their short lives. Still, he couldn’t hold a grudge against this one because what would be the point, especially with such a well-meaning creature? It would die so soon besides.

The butterfly followed him for the rest of the day, humming and reciting to the unicorn whatever came to her fancy. But once the sun had gone down and the sky budded with rosy clouds, she smiled and danced away from the unicorn’s side. On one wing she spun mid-air and executed a sweeping bow with her curled feelers.

“Farewell, farewell! _Adiós, auf Wiedersehen_. Should I survive the day, I’ll drink a bumper with my lord upon the last of May.”

“Bye-bye, butterfly,” said the unicorn. “I hope you hear many more songs and find many others to whom to sing them.”

But instead of leaving, the butterfly lingered. An abrupt nervousness seemed to take hold of her, and she fluttered close to brush another kiss to the unicorn’s nose and tangle her scales into his mane for good luck.

“Fly away,” the unicorn urged her, surprised. “Otherwise the chilly night will fall and freeze your heart.”

“On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode,” murmured the butterfly. Then she rose a bit higher into the sky and spoke clear and ringing, “Unicorn. Old French, _unicorne_. Latin, _unicornis_. Literally, 'one-horned': _unus,_  'one,' and _cornu_ , 'a horn.' A fabulous animal resembling a horse with one horn.”

“Oh!” The unicorn was so startled and delighted that he overlooked the horse comments. “Ahh, you do know me! Butterfly, if you know me, then you must know others like me. Tell me if you’ve seen them, tell me which way they’ve gone.”

“Arirang, arirang, arariyo,” she sang. The butterfly brushed aside the unicorn’s forelock and pressed one last kiss to a spot right under the glowing horn. She was trembling, just a bit. “No. No, listen, don't listen to me, listen. You can find your people if you are brave. Outside the open window the morning air is all awash with angels. _Kono michi ya, yuku hito nashini, aki no kure._ ”

“I don't understand.”

“The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.” The butterfly flapped her wings and it wafted like someone’s breath against his forehead. “River that flows so swiftly to the sea, did you not hear her cry? It's too cold outside for angels to fly. The big city lights are calling out our names tonight!”

“You speak of the sea,” the unicorn echoed, desperately trying to piece sense out of her fractured explanation. “The sea, and angels, and a city. Is that where my people are? Where I will find them? Please, try to tell me!”

“Oppa is Gangnam-style!” the butterfly exclaimed with a laugh, much to his frustration. For a moment more she hovered before him, appearing in the dusk to be a tiny blue shadow. Then she wobbled away into the cool darkness by the highway, singing to herself or to no one, “Wait a minute, wait a minute, sorry for interrupting but follow me down. Follow me down. Follow me down. Follow me down.” And that final wisp of her voice was the last the unicorn ever saw of her.

 _Well_ , he thought sadly, _at least she did recognize me. That means that unicorns have been here not long ago, right?_ But the unicorn doubted it, the butterfly’s words too vague and unreliable to decipher. The sea and angels and a big city — he had no idea what any of it could mean. Maybe it was only another song.

Such were the thoughts that spun dizzy circles in his head. The unicorn plodded on, and the night closed in around him slowly. The moon rose full and silver as a teardrop but veiled by streaked clouds. In the distance he could see stars along the horizon, except they were not stars at all but the blinking, sleepless lights of a far-away city that, too, had no end. More reminders of time, then, of change — more restless, cloying thoughts such as that summer and autumn and winter had begun to claw at his lilac trees the very moment he stepped foot onto this road.

Finally the unicorn lay down in the tufts of grass by the road and drifted off to sleep there, shaded by the tower of a billboard. Aching legs and heart made him exhausted, and so although unicorns are the wariest of all creatures, his sleep was deep and dreaming of home and contentment. Thus he didn’t awake even to the sound of tires rolling down the highway; the hybrid engine was silent besides.

The car slid to a halt by his still, snowy form and opened for a tall figure to emerge. The figure passed a hand over its face, stared, and then smiled wickedly. “Well. Well, bless my tired old heart,” it said with a woman’s voice that spread oil over the air. “And here I thought the last of them gone forever.”

“Miss Eun-seo,” spoke a man from the driver’s seat. “We are on a strict schedule. The museum opens at six o’clock sharp.” He sounded older and nasal: runny water to her oil.

“Yes, yes. Oh, but Geonho, if you could only _see_ ,” the lady said and bared straight white teeth upon another smile. “What do you say, Geonho? Tell me what we’re looking at here.”

“A wild animal. A horse,” came the impatient reply. “Miss, we really must be going.”

“Ha, you old fool. No, I want him. What a shame it’d be otherwise, an absolute waste. I want him in the gallery.” A beat. The woman breathed. “Get out of the car and help me get him into the backseat. Oh, don’t look at me like that, he’ll fit — he’s not the _exact_ size of a horse.”

“Miss Eun-seo, we don’t even have any rope or—”

“Even if we did, it’d be useless. No rope could ever hold this creature. Relax, Geonho. I’ll put a sleep spell on him, no worries.” And with that, words tumbled from her mouth sharp and lulling like stones rubbed into knife-points by saltwater. Her fingertips sparked or smoked, and she twisted and pulled at the night air until sweat beaded across her forehead and the smell of incense draped over the unicorn like a cloak.

“He’ll sleep until the sun rises, no matter what racket we make. Now I’m not going to say it a second time. Come help me get him into the car.”

The two humans did make a racket as they loaded the spellbound creature into the vehicle, most of which came from Geonho. Unbeknownst to both, however, a pair of eyes watched them from the darkness, dimly glowing as it reflected the car headlights. The eyes had first noticed the unicorn as he laid down his head to sleep and, from the shadows, had watched over his sleeping form with great contemplation until the car arrived. Now they watched unblinking as the capture occurred, and as Eun-seo pushed the unicorn farther into the backseat, the eyes and their owner stood up off the ground to slink closer.

Then right after Eun-seo had jumped back into the passenger seat, and right before the backseat was slammed closed, a sleek dark shape pounced inside just close enough to nearly get its tail caught in the door.

But of course, Geonho didn’t notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by [these](https://66.media.tumblr.com/504b60c83f1c55805c11786cad0283ba/tumblr_oguj78swEC1vvw947o5_r1_400.gif) [three](https://66.media.tumblr.com/1c6425b5a87a430d717eab1672c1b1b0/tumblr_oguj7d9TYj1vw0tjxo2_540.gif) [shots](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0055a674b5ad2ee3b213896165b3b6d3/tumblr_oguj7d9TYj1vw0tjxo1_540.gif) from BTS's trailer for their "2017 WINGS Tour."
> 
> In flower symbolism the narcissus represents vanity and narcissism (of course, and like a unicorn), and sometimes future misfortune, but it also stands for rebirth, renewal, and the arrival of spring.


	2. Boy Meets

****When dawn came it did so in soft washes of silver and pink. The breeze was brisk from autumn, and tasted faintly of smog and the hot, cheap snacks bought at convenience stores. The new museum stood gleaming in the morning sunlight. It presented an air of solemn grandeur with its arched doorways and paned-glass windows. A long line filed down its sandstone steps, comprised mostly of young adults, couples, and laughing college students. The sky above them hummed with excitement while the fabric signs stationed outside the doors rippled in the wind.

Each was emblazoned with a collage of fantastical images: mythical beasts, or pages of scrawled runes, or the photograph of a straight-backed woman taken from the side. But across the top all of them bore in bright, eye-snatching Korean letters, THE GALLERY OF MAGIC LOST AND FOUND. And below, in smaller print: _Curated by Prof. Man Eun-seo._

It was the word “magic” that caught the attention of the people in line, and it was the word “magic” which called the boy over.

He took out one earbud and stared at first the sign, then the table of glossy pamphlets (a paperweight held them down against the wind) with sharp, curious eyes. He was tall with long, lean legs and carried on his shoulders a paradoxical air of both self-confidence and bashful timidity. The boy tilted his head, studied the sign from that angle, and then pulled out his phone to check the time only to remember he was wearing a watch.

They both said the same thing, anyways.  _5:59 AM_.

For the thousandth time that day the boy wished that he hadn’t signed up for the early morning lectures.

The song playing on his phone ended. He skipped back to the beginning and eyed the pamphlets, the shivering sign, the line of museum attendees. A tingle played over his skin at the latter and beneath the sleeves of his navy jacket goosebumps stood along his arms.

His watch beeped. _6:00 AM_. The museum doors opened.

To no one in particular the boy whispered, “I can skip class for this,” and the trees that ran down the street rustled in response.

* * *

The museum’s main gallery was a humongous space. It beheld a ceiling cut from frosted glass, walls painted in shades of cream and gold, and excellent acoustics. Swathes of off-white brocade draped and softened the pentagonal corners, and bright red ropes shielded guests off from the artwork. They were arranged in meticulous order: paintings hung symmetrically across five walls in a pentacle enclosing a triangle of statues, in the center of which stood a shape concealed by a black veil. Museum patrons wandered through the red ropes as though in a maze. Their shoes squeaked and echoed, and all their murmurs and whispered comments melded in a blanket of hush.

Geonho appeared leading a crowd of excitable teenagers and reporters with notepads and thick black cameras. In the faceted light that shone through the ceiling, he was revealed to be an elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face more deeply wrinkled and grooved than a walnut. But he wore a fine suit and moved with practiced efficiency from one exhibit to the next, commentating solemnly on each to the crowd.

“Here is _The Hunt of the Hounds_. An oil painting of unknown maker, discovered and retrieved from a monastery in Wales that practically begged to have it taken off their hands. Portraying the infamous European myth of ‘the wild hunt,’ where fairies, gods, or the dead make up a ghostly hunt, we strongly believe that magic is present in the intended meaning and perhaps creation of this piece. Note how the hounds seem to move, how the background seems to shift and change. It’s also possible that the reds were derived from animal or human blood, and if one were to come close enough — please stay behind the ropes, ladies and gentlemen — one may find the smell quite unpleasant. This way, ladies and gentlemen.”

Camera shutters clicked and pencils scribbled cryptic notes; someone in the back giggled a bit too loudly. Geonho continued onto the next painting.

“ _Echo and Narcissus_. While sharing the same name as Waterhouse’s work, this piece is far less mundane. Look at Echo’s face! Look at Narcissus’ reflection on the water! Grief and unrequited longing bleeds from the acrylics, and furthermore there appears to be a spell over the painting that bades the onlooker spill forth all their troubles. You feel it, don’t you? If anyone in the audience has such burdens, I recommend you turn away, otherwise Echo will repeat your confessions for everyone and anyone to hear forever after.”

A voice seemed to issue from the painting at that, causing a female patron to burst into tears and flee, her bewildered boyfriend in tow. The crowd was stunned into quiet before Geonho stepped past them. “This way, ladies and gentlemen, this way to my personal favorite. _Terror of the Manticore_.”

The unicorn didn’t hear him. In fact, the unicorn barely heard or saw anything happening in the gallery. In his own prison he paced without end, wearing a path into the floor of the cage which gaped infinite around him. A void was his pen, soundless, lightless; his only window to the real world was a huge rectangle through which he could peer. But he couldn’t leave. Not when the opening became an invisible barricade whenever he pushed against it, not when the edges hissed whispers in clawed, sibilant voices like cold iron. Thus helpless to escape, the unicorn could do nothing but turn and turn in the void.

Outside, though, nothing appeared out of the ordinary — unless the short, decorative pillars that flanked the paintings could be counted. On the left of the unicorn’s prison stood one made of marble, with a vase of thematic white lilies balanced on top. Behind it nestled a tortoiseshell shadow: a cat.

It was much larger than usual but sat so still and dark and silent that no one save a handful of children even noticed it there. And when it had no reaction to their eager pats besides squinting in a tolerant manner, they assumed that it probably belonged to the museum.

(They were wrong of course, but the cat was hardly about to correct them.)

Laying with forepaws tucked under its chest, the cat watched the museum-goers, eyes at half-mast. Its irises seemed to glow whenever light hit at the right angle, and were admittedly quite pretty when they flew wide open and the cat jumped to its feet with bristling fur. Bottle-green and flecked with gold, its eyes snapped over the flood of people as though searching for someone. Then it raised its head, flicked first one ear and then the other, and padded off into the crowd, unnoticed as it wove through innumerable legs and vanished.

* * *

The boy had been impressed at first.

The prickling sensation over his skin only intensified as he paid the high entry fee and followed his group through the hallways. That simple fact made his stomach knot in shivery excitement and he had to physically keep himself from grinning because yes yes yes he'd finally found it, he could finally touch it, see it, feel it,  _have_ it. The museum was really very spacious; in addition to the lobby and the main gallery in the back, two more wings housed tapestries, mysterious artifacts, and suits of Western and Eastern armor, all said to be magic. At one point the boy paused in front of a glass case in which a book lay open to a page of strange writing. It had an odd leathery texture to its cover, and he’d recoiled in disgust when the tour guide claimed that it was because the book was made from human skin. _Gross_ , exclaimed one patron. _Cool_ , said another. The boy just smiled awkwardly and backed away from the book as fast as he could.

It had seemed right. It had _felt_ right. But as the tour went on, and the boy stared at more and more exhibits, it was as though his eyes adjusted to darkness and to his immense disappointment he began to see things clearly.

Then when they had finally finished the tour of the west wing and the guide began to introduce the main gallery, the boy couldn’t stand it anymore. His knees seemed to lock so that he stood frozen while the others moved on, shedding away from him like scales from a butterfly. He rocked on his feet, and stared at the art hung over the walls, and fought back the tears that stung his eyes and lodged in his throat.

Because it wasn’t real. None of it was real.

He should’ve known it wasn’t fucking _real_.

And now he’d just wasted his entire morning, missed the first class of his first semester, ignited useless hopes and spent a shit ton of money that he could have saved for ramyeon and textbooks instead and _fuck shit fuck_  mother _fucker_ what had he been thinking what was he _doing_ there of all the fucking _stupid_ —

“Meow.”

The boy looked down.

The cat stared back. “Meow.”

“Uh.” There was a good reason why he didn't major in communications. The boy wiped his eyes and managed a smile that was just a bit watery. “Hey there,” he greeted as he knelt to get on eye level with the not-really-all-that-little animal. “Are you lost?”

The cat shot him what could’ve only been an affronted expression and in a more insistent manner said, “ _Meow_ ," prompting passerby to glance over curiously.

“Um... I don’t have any food, if that’s what you want,” the boy said, tentative. He swore he saw the cat roll its eyes before it lifted a paw to bat his knee.

His whole body jolted at the touch, and he realized. His eyes widened. He realized.

“Y-You’re—!”

But the cat had already dashed off.

“Hey! Hey, wait! Hold on!”

The boy leaped to his feet and ran after it, dodging and shoving past shocked patrons who yelled angrily at his back. But he heard nothing, so frantic was he to keep up. He glimpsed the cat between the arms and legs of the museum guests; a sleek form zipped across the tile floor, tail arched into a exclamation point. Equal number swears and apologies spilled from his mouth when he nearly bowled over several people in his desperation not to fall behind. When he burst into the main gallery, the light seemed to blind him.

Then.

A chill. A shadow.

The boy glanced up and almost tripped over his own sneakers. His legs wobbled and seemed to lose strength, just as his face lost all trace of blood flow.

 _Holy shit. Holy_ shit—

“Meow!”

He whipped around and, after a moment, spotted the cat sitting by a pillar at the far wall: the base of the pentagon. He cursed loudly, earning him a dirty look from a woman, and the awe from earlier ( _as well as the terror_ ) stripped away into irritation when he marched over to the cat. Yet it had the audacity to peer at him with a totally innocent face.

Too fucking cute. The boy decided he had no choice but to hate it.

“Hey, you, what’s the big idea?!” he hissed under his breath and squatted to glare past the red ropes into its eyes. The cat blinked. “You just waltz up to me to act all mysterious and cat-like and then you just _run_ _off_? What the hell kind of ‘hello, you poor, poor college boy, lemme comfort your aching soul with my feline powers’ is _that_? You could’ve just…could’ve just…”

The boy trailed off mid-sentence, because he had at last noticed the painting the cat sat under. His eyes went round as rice crackers, mouth slightly agape while he gawked at the framed piece. The cat purred and flicked its tail. It looked sickeningly smug but the boy couldn’t bring himself to care right then.

The painting didn’t seem especially beautiful like some others in the gallery. Nor was it very colorful in all shades of brown like coffee and walnut and teakwood, or even all that creative, depicting a close-up of thickets from which a familiar beast’s head emerged. Even its frame seemed to be made of plain dark gray metal, albeit engraved.

Yet many people paused at it, too enraptured or distracted by the piece to pay much attention to the strange boy and his cat; a reporter snapped a picture of it without even a glance at the latter, who was clearly breaking the museum’s “no pets except service animals” rule. Nobody ever lingered, though, instead staring for only a few moments before they left as though unable to look upon it for too long a length of time. A handful even averted their gazes in a near-frightened manner and somehow the boy wasn’t surprised to notice tears brimming in their eyes.

His own eyes were wet, too. His skin tingled. His blood sang. His heart raced. Goosebumps prickled over his flesh as if someone breathed on the nape of his neck. A warmth seeped through his tangled veins, and the urge to laugh or cry or shout bubbled up from the farthest bottom of his ribs.

In both the painting and beyond, a unicorn looked back at him.

And it was true, pure, unadulterated, _real magic_.

* * *

“Hi.”

The unicorn looked up at the whisper. Standing by his cage, a boy watched him with wide, reverent eyes. He wore a navy jacket with a rumpled white shirt underneath, and his hands clutched the diagonal strap of his bookbag like it was a lifeline. A cat sat down on his shoes but he seemed not to even notice.

“Oh, wow. Wow,” the boy was whispering. His words emerged as little more than a shiver. “You’re…really beautiful.”

The unicorn turned away and continued to pace: back and forth, back and forth. In the gallery Geonho’s commentary resonated. “Ah, _The Fox Sister_ … A fine portrayal of a classic fairy tale with grisly detail. However, this piece was created by a contemporary Korean artist who reported to have encountered and escaped the deadly beast, then painted this as proof. Indeed, you can feel the fox’s fur underhand when you look at this portrait. You can smell the old meat on her breath. Don’t look too deeply into the eyes, however, or else she may remember yours!”

“No,” said the boy, steel honing the edges of his voice. He had glanced away from the unicorn to watch the tour, lips mashed into a thin white line. “It’s a lie. Nothing would happen because there’s no _kumiho_ in that portrait, no mythical creature, no magic. Not any more than there is in this entire museum.” Then he blinked and his eyes refocused, resoftened, and he turned back to the unicorn with a sad smile. “But I guess I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”

The unicorn said nothing. The boy’s smile faded.

“Tell me what you see,” he said and stepped forward (forcing off the grumbling cat). “When you look at the statues and sculptures and the paintings on the walls. Tell me what you see.” He hesitated. “Please.”

After a moment the unicorn paused and peered out at the boy, taking in the sight of him. He stared right back; he had soft, messy hair to match the brown of his eyes, and his face possessed angles from age — strong jaw, sharp chin — which full cheeks and a curved nose helped to round out. The unicorn looked through the window of his prison at the portrait of the fox sister.

“There is no magic,” the unicorn echoed. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “There is only a cage with a fox huddled inside — a sad, hungry, common fox with just one tail. But they look into her eyes and scream and laugh, call her monster! Are they blind?”

“Yes,” whispered the boy, face blooming with relief and joy. “Yes. Look again. What else do you see?”

The unicorn swung his head around. “The Hunt of the Hounds,” he continued, “is only a starving, mangy black dog on a chain, poor thing. He wants water, he’s so terribly thirsty, and he wants food. He’s in no way fit for a wild ghost-hunt. Echo and Narcissus are but a bowl of pond-water and daffodils, and the manticore’s nothing but an old, toothless lion who deserves a better fate than this.”

“Yes. What else?”

Then, as the unicorn blinked and his eyes also adjusted to the illusions and deceptions, he began to perceive a second form laid over each exhibit. On the wall over the lonely fox appeared a silk portrait, framed in polished wood and depicting a nude woman with spilled hair and wild, eager eyes. The black dog vanished behind a six-foot painting in black and red, oil paints billowing with movement that one could never be sure was real or mere tricks of the eye. The bowl of daffodils became Narcissus, desperate, vain, and longing; and beloved Echo with her fragmented body and voice. The maw of the manticore sculpture dripped turpentine for poison, frozen in a horrific roar over the shadow of the pitiful creature behind it.

“What magic is this?” the unicorn whispered. “It is yet it isn’t. There’s great power here but only in lies and dreams sprung from truth.”

“Ha! Thank goodness. I’m not delusional after all.” The boy laughed, but it trickled away fast as a drying stream. “It took me a lot longer to realize I wasn’t looking at what the museum had promised me. ‘Magic lost and found’… I got so many hopes up just to fall for a load of total bullsh— Lies. A load of lies.”

By his ankle the cat made a sound suspiciously alike a laugh, and the boy nudged it sharply with his shoe. The unicorn peeked around at the gallery a second time.

“Spells of seeming,” he murmured half to himself. “The curator cannot truly make things.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” agreed the boy with a grimace. “And she can’t change them either. But she can disguise things, which wouldn’t be all that awesome if the people who came here weren’t so eager to see what she might have in the first place. They want these illusions, I think. Maybe a part of them believes in magic, still — even only a little bit — and I think that’s what makes them see a man-eating fox, and ghost dogs, and manticores.”

He looked up in time for abrupt shyness to flicker across his face.

“And a unicorn, too.”

The unicorn paused mid-step in another round of pacing, realizing for the first time that the boy saw him for what he truly was — could see and hear and speak with him. Noticing the unicorn’s expression, the boy smiled, and out of nowhere the unicorn got the impression that his face seemed frighteningly young for those too-bright eyes.

“I know you,” the boy said.

Silence hung between them in a thin, dusty layer. The cat curled its tail around its paws. Geonho lectured his group on the second statue: an _imugi_ dragon-serpent who made your hand come away with shimmering scales stuck to it if you stroked its stone body. Many blue scales littered the ground around the statue’s podium, on which a python coiled in a shadowy cage.

“Who are you?” the unicorn asked.

“Me? My name’s Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” He scratched the back of his neck and a bashful smile began to cross his face. But then he appeared to think better of it and bit the smile off, resulting in an awkward half-grin instead. “I’m a second-year at Seoul National University. Music major.” The cat snorted and Jungkook narrowed his eyes down at it. “Oh, and this is Asshole by the way. Say hello, Assho— _Ow!_ ”

He jerked his foot away; the cat had swiped extended claws at him, ears pinned back, tail twitching.

The unicorn picked his pacing back up during that brief exchange. Seeing this, the smile dropped from Jungkook’s face to be replaced by a solemn expression. Which suited his eyes much more, thought the unicorn.

“Also, I'm a magician.”

A beat. Jungkook had the good sense to then blush and duck his head. “Or at least…I’m a more real one than the museum curator.”

The unicorn looked at him for a long while at that, intently studying his young face, soft features, and broad hands. But whatever reply he might’ve offered ended up dying on his lips, because at that moment the unicorn glanced up and noticed a statue he hadn’t before, and suddenly the breath in his lungs went cold and solid as ice.

There behind the _imugi_ stood a true marble masterpiece. A man crouched on one leg, right hand hovering over his knee, the other arm aloft as if he were about to spring into the air. The carved face was but a mask, giving leeway to a thousand different interpretations of the statue’s expression: peace, maybe, or indifference or even grief. From his back swung raven-black wings that required wires to support their fully extended wingspan of fourteen feet.

But that was not what the unicorn saw.

Beneath the winged statue, behind the knitted shadow-pattern of illusion, a figure knelt. Its back was to the unicorn and his company but that did nothing to quell the chill that crawled along his spine. A robe draped over the figure’s form, the sleeves bunched around its elbows to reveal smooth broad shoulders while also half-hiding the chains wound around long arms and binding the figure to the floor of its void-cage. But most prominent and frightening of all were the two scars ripped down the bared back: parallel, scabbed dark and ugly red and crooked with healing.

Then, as though it felt his gaze, the figure raised its head and looked over its shoulder. Right at the unicorn.

It ( _he_ ) had hair shot through with sunlight and an impossible shade of blue for eyes. However, no words can ever accurately describe his face, neither in prose nor poetry. Meticulously chosen features bled together to form an image of singular perfection: ultimate beauty, the very essence of what that word is meant to mean. It was a face that could cradle men and children to their deaths and strike bravery into downtrodden warriors. It was a face that could bring down empires and warm the hardest heart to weep.

And then the soft mouth quirked into a twisted, twisted smile that instantly shattered any semblance of beauty. Bluebell eyes became frightening in their coldness; gentle features snarled promises of destruction. The unicorn’s blood burned wild in his veins and he tossed his head high, horn blazing brighter and brighter until finally the demon was forced to avert his eyes. But still he smiled. Still he smiled.

“That one is real,” the unicorn said softly. Jungkook, who had followed his gaze to the winged statue and the creature behind it, swallowed hard and nodded. His shoulders trembled just enough to be perceptible, and the cat had ducked behind his legs and stood there hissing with its entire coat standing on end.

“I saw him the second I came in,” Jungkook whispered. “I can feel him wearing down the spell. Hell, he shreds it away just by being here. It’s too weak to hold him for long.”

The two of them fell quiet as they listened to Geonho give some fabricated story about the winged statue. The demon kept his head bowed throughout the scrutiny, barely flexing against the chains that bound him. But that frightful smile remained in place. His teeth gleamed against the dark of his void and there was a horrifying quality to how he trembled when the crowd drew close, almost as if in excitement.

Jungkook turned to look at the unicorn with frightened eyes. “You have to be free before him. There’s no way you can be in a cage when he gets out.”

“The iron keeps me trapped inside, and though my horn can open any lock I’ve found none in this cell,” the unicorn said. Despite his horror towards the demon, his voice emerged sounding calm as stagnant water. “I cannot get out.”

Jungkook’s face fell at once, and despair inched towards his eyes while he imagined the only possible outcome: the demon shattering his chains, breaking out of his false prison to find the unicorn trapped and helpless. He thought of how the creature’s face fractured with a smile, shuddered, and went still. The unicorn then watched as Jungkook steeled with unexpected resolve.

“Don’t be scared,” he told the unicorn, drawing himself up even taller. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.” And with a quick glance around first, he stretched over the red ropes to touch the bottom of the iron frame with his fingertips, gently, and smiled.

Geonho was moving towards the unicorn’s painting; Jungkook cast a nervous look at the approaching crowd and withdrew his hand, although he remained bent over the rope to whisper, “I have to go now. I can’t come back today, I got other classes that I can’t afford to miss. But tomorrow I’ll be back and I swear on my life I’ll help you escape. Please wait for me!”

That last sentence drifted to the unicorn faint and reassuring, for Jungkook had begun backing away as he spoke and then turned to flee. His bookbag bounced haphazardly against his hip as he ran and soon enough he had disappeared into the sea of patrons. The unicorn watched him go, and the cat watched the unicorn for a little as well. Then it got up and padded over to lay back down behind its pillar just as Geonho reached the painting.

The elderly man cleared his throat, smoothed his jacket, and gestured. “ _Finding the Unicorn_.”

He gave no other description, and as it turned out the tourists needed none. The unicorn heard heartbeats quicken and breaths catch, smelled the salt of cresting tears. Every person in that little group stared at the all-brown painting in shock and loss and sorrowful rapture, and the unicorn took the sight of their faces as offering. He gazed at them and thought of the hikers’ grandmother, and wondered what it might be like to grow old. To cry.

Meanwhile the cat purred, a sound too soft and sweet for anyone but the unicorn to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's surprisingly fun yet challenging to write Jungkook.
> 
> [And you all know](http://68.media.tumblr.com/30c163f5e542561441293a3a8b8d0027/tumblr_oesolhEMkD1tk7ffbo4_540.gif) [who the demon is.](http://68.media.tumblr.com/efd17ef448fbc4e2b68d47d7e7d8d7d0/tumblr_oesolhEMkD1tk7ffbo5_540.gif)


	3. Run

****The rest of the museum’s opening day passed like sand through parted fingers, trickles of wondering, half-skeptical faces and babbled voices. Dusk slanted through the paned-glass ceiling amber and gold and burnt-orange, lighting the walls and statues with a soft glow. The frames of the paintings gleamed, and the etchings on the metal stood out in swirled flowers and curlicues. There had been more people at midday but by now the crowd had dispersed. It was almost closing time.

The unicorn stood at the window of his magic prison. He had long stopped pacing and now watched the winged statue. The demon hunched into himself, chains taut, so the unicorn couldn’t see what expression stretched across that horrifically perfect face. But he did notice that the humans who came to peruse the gallery kept a distance from the demon’s podium, even the boldest never daring to get too close. Far as he was, the unicorn could yet feel the evil that slithered like snakes over the winged statue.

At last, when the rays of dusk had begun to paint themselves indigo, Geonho brought the last group of patrons and reporters to a halt beside the black-veiled shape in the gallery’s center. This piqued the unicorn’s interest straightaway. Although many had asked about it, Geonho refused to answer any questions regarding the veiled figure. But now he cast a sharp glance over the museum’s stragglers and cleared his throat for attention.

“Many of you,” he began, “have no doubt been wondering about this last exhibit. After all, what else could Professor Man present after such exquisite examples of magical artistry? Yet the gallery holds one more mystery, one more treasure that the professor insisted would best end opening night. Ladies and gentlemen!” Geonho seized one corner of the veil and swept it off. “We have in front of you, silence itself!”

The statue was molded from deep gray clay, perhaps of smaller and slighter build than the others. It portrayed a thin woman in robes that flowed over the base of her podium like water. She raised long hands to her face, one over an ear, the other sculpted so that the fingers hovered just over gaunt cheeks and lips. Tangled clay hair poured over a wide-eyed expression, which stared fixated on something distant and invisible. The sculpture evoked such pitiful fright that one felt the overwhelming urge to comfort the woman — but instead the museum patrons murmured uneasily amongst themselves, and the reporters hesitated before snapping photographs.

The unicorn quailed with a soft, fearful noise. A terrible, hollow silence coated the statue and reached out to him, and like the creep of frostbite, it swallowed him whole till he seemed wholly unable to hear anything. It was not the quiet of a slow day, nor the soundlessness of the deaf. No — this was true _silence_ , the sort that belonged to only death and nonexistence and the utter loss of all physical sense. All-encompassing, beyond numb, the silence stuffed static into the unicorn’s ears and made needles buzz in his mind. It dragged down his head, sucked the air from his lungs, and ate up his hearing, sight, and touch until nothing was left, not even what he once had been, noiseless nothing. From somewhere very far away the demon’s lips peeled back from his teeth in glee, but the unicorn would have gladly run into his arms if it meant fleeing from this unbearable stillness.

“The museum is now closed. Thank you for attending, and we hope to perhaps see you again soon.”

Sound wriggled back in slivers; Geonho ushered the last of the patrons out of the gallery. He answered the reporters’ rushed questions in a clipped tone and ignored the nervous giggles of those who glanced back at the silent statue, again and again. The patrons left in pairs and fews and severals, but never alone. Soon enough nothing but the reverb of their departure lingered in the gallery, which the painting of Echo and Narcissus held onto for as long as it could.

 _It was only an illusion_ , thought the unicorn. _Only an illusion_. Yet he lifted a head still filled with the roaring hush of death to stare at the silent statue as the clay surface rippled and fell away. Then there was neither a sculpture nor silence but Man Eun-seo herself, who stretched with a snicker before hopping down from the podium. She was a middle-aged woman whose tall frame was edged in pride, just like her photo on the signs outside, with black hair lined silver and eyes that took the world in greedily.

The unicorn knew then he hadn’t been drifting and death-silent at all. Even so, he couldn’t help but feel cold all over.

“That was fun,” Eun-seo was snickering as Geonho returned. His shoes clacked against the hard tiles of the floor. “I enjoyed that a lot more than I expected. I guess I’m just stagestruck at heart.”

“Miss Eun-seo, _please_ make sure to check that one before you leave.” Geonho’s voice was hard, his finger jabbed in the winged statue’s direction. “I’ve never liked the air of him and I swear that today I could feel him trying to work himself free the whole time. Get rid of him, Miss, and maybe he’ll decide not to kill us. He thinks about it all the time. I just know it.”

“That’s _enough_ , Geonho.” Eun-seo’s voice quavered for only a moment. Her eyes were dark. “If I say we keep him, then we keep him. I have him under control, and even if he escapes I can turn him into a real statue, or into a paintbrush, or into seven notes of music! Who else in history has ever kept a true demon captive, and who knows if anyone ever will again? We’re keeping him. Hell, I’d do it if it meant I had to feed him your soul.”

“A pleasant thought,” bit the old man. “And suppose it was only your soul he wanted, ma’am? Suppose he only wanted the soul of the woman who chained him down and caged him.”

Eun-seo sneered. “I’d give him yours anyway. What can he do about it now?” She glowered at Geonho before dropping clenched hands from her hips to begin her way around the gallery.

The unicorn watched the professor poke and prod at her illusions. She wiped imaginary dust off the sculptures and had Geonho feed the animals hidden beneath the enchantments. When she reached the winged statue, the bowed demon’s head snapped up and he lunged. He made no sound, no shout, simply surged up until his chain snapped taut so he got no farther than a half-crouch. The demon strained against his bonds anyways, angel’s-face wild with burning eyes, pretty lips mouthing unheard words. The unicorn caught a glimpse of his hands shackled behind his back: the fingers were clenched into eager, animal claws.

Eun-seo flinched, just enough for both the demon and unicorn to notice. Then she steadied herself and managed to give the demon a hard, haughty look. “No,” she whispered. “No. You’re still mine. If you kill me, you’re mine.” She held his eyes for a second longer, then turned away before the edges of her glare could curl and peel like burned paper. Casually, she looked around for something else to fix her attention upon and locked gazes with the unicorn, so with a little smile she went to him instead.

“What do you think?” she asked, voice sweet and sickening. “Quite the name I’ve made for myself, haven’t I? No matter what the media might say or accuse, I really must have some magic in me after all. Nobody left today who didn’t feel _something_ here, see, and _I_ was the one who ensured that. And to trick a unicorn into believing himself in the abyss of death? To be able to keep one of _them_ imprisoned? Only I have the ability—”

“Stop boasting,” said the unicorn, but not unkindly and even a little sadly. “You’ve brought a terrible thing unto yourself. Your death sits there in chains and hears you.”

“Yes. Yes.” Eun-seo placed her hands on the red ropes around the painting. Excitement rendered her voice breathless. “But at least I know where he is, so I can see him coming when the time arrives. But what about you? You were just out there, waiting for your death to traipse in and take you whenever. At least be grateful I saved you from that.”

The unicorn froze. “You…know what I’m looking for?”

“Of course. What else would it be? You want to know where the rest of your species are, as does the modern world but with magic and sorcery instead.” She laughed and it emerged a harsh, stony sound. “It doesn’t matter, though. It doesn’t matter. You belong to me now, and you’ll be safe here in this little pocket of leftover magic that I’ve made. All that remains in this era of computers and endless tech.”

“Except it isn’t really. There’s nothing here but illusions and made-up stories.” The unicorn saw the professor tense but continued nonetheless, “You know better than this. Keep your shadows and statues, but let me go. And—” He raised his head. “—let him go, too. The old man is right; he’ll kill you both for sure and think nothing of it, unless you release him. And he may not change his mind even then.”

“Never,” hissed Eun-seo. Her head hunched like the demon and she wrung her hands angrily. Sparks flickered across her fingernails. “All my life,” she said. “All my life I’ve _dreamed_ of making magic, of astounding others with spells and fantastic feats. I studied everything that could have pertained to magic in school. Astronomy, astrology, history, linguistics, even medicine! Do you honestly believe that I spent all that time just to drag through life as a mundane museum curator? Do you think this was my childhood dream — to spin lies and make people see weak, half-formed sorcery in fake paintings and statues?! I wanted to play with fire! I wanted to create stars! And now look at how close I’ve come to that, finally. I captured a true, living demon; I captured _you_ , and that’s something that you’ll both remember forever. So there’s my legacy, see?”

“Then if it’s fame you desire so much, why don’t you flaunt it?” the unicorn asked. “Why conceal it, why hide it under the mask of artwork? What is the point?”

For a moment Eun-seo’s face fell and gave the unicorn a flash of the girl Eun-seo must have once been: young with dreams, giddy with the impossibilities of magic. Almost immediately after, however, her expression hardened again and she put on a tight, thin line for a smile.

“That’s just it. What _would_ be the point?” The woman uttered another stony laugh. “Next to no one would believe me if I went and said that I caught two of the greatest, most fearsome myths known to man. They’d never know the demon for what he truly is, not if they can’t see even you without my help. That’s why I had to give you — both of you — an aspect that they could understand. So now, instead of being Man Eun-seo the woman who has a demon and a unicorn in her hands, I’m Man Eun-seo, the curator of a museum for forgotten magical things. Life’s a real bitch, I tell you.”

Her voice cracked on that last sentence. Eun-seo turned to furtively wipe away the shine welling beneath her eye. The unicorn stared, stricken and a little uncertain what to say.

“I promise you, you’d be better off staying with me here in this gallery,” Eun-seo said after she'd composed herself, and gestured around at the gallery. “Nobody would recognize you outside. It’s not a world for unicorns anymore — not that I think it ever was, really. But now only the thing that caught the rest of your kind will know you when it sees you. Do you understand what I’m saying? Magic’s been almost completely forgotten, and it’s only a matter of time before creatures like you are, too. Remember that.”

Eun-seo left, and the moon stretched her shadow behind her as it rose above the glass ceiling.

* * *

The cat kept the unicorn company through the night, tucked behind the marble pillar. Chains rattled from far off like the patter of rain; the cat’s purrs helped drown out the chilling sound of the demon laughing softly to himself.

And sometimes when the unicorn would awake briefly to blink away the moon- and starlight on his lashes, he thought he saw someone reclining back against the pillar. He thought he could see the shape of a boy and hear a lullaby being sung to him instead. The voice was dulcet. Gentle.

In the morning, however, there was only a cat snoozing behind the pillar.

The unicorn didn’t mind.

 

(Also during the night, and much farther away, Jungkook pushed aside his music theory textbook and ran his hands over his face. He couldn’t concentrate at all.)

 

* * *

“You came back.”

Jungkook smiled. It seemed nervous, even more so due to the purplish shadows under his eyes. He’d exchanged the rumpled button-up for skinny jeans and a white T-shirt under the navy jacket. The shirt was two sizes too big and hung off his torso in a way that made him appear even younger, softer around the edges. _And yet..._ Although it suited his college student image well enough, the effect still jarred — as if Jungkook wore a mask that didn’t quite fit him.

“And I told you I would, too,” he teased gently. “Where’s the faith, c’mon?”

The unicorn just peered at him, and the cat meowed cheekily. Jungkook coughed and glanced aside. Indeed, he returned as promised but had done so nearly ten minutes before closing time; Geonho had already unveiled the statue of silence, and Eun-seo disappeared though not after a long, fearful pause in front of the demon’s cage. The lady at the front desk narrowed her eyes at the sight of the panting, winded boy but otherwise merely shook her head and gave him his ticket.

(Jungkook cried inside as he paid for the entry fee a second damn time. At this rate, he was going to have to live on fucking air for the rest of his sophomore year.)

“I’m sorry I got here so late,” he whispered, glancing around. But the old man was nowhere to be seen, and few other patrons lingered at this hour. “But class was hell and I had to meet up for a group assignment, then the train got delayed so I… Um. Well. I’m really sorry for the wait… You doing all right…?”

The unicorn turned away at that. “She put a spell on me,” he said. “Never has even the weakest magic been cast on me before.” A shiver shook his shining body. “Never has there been a world where I wasn’t known.”

Jungkook made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. “I thought you already knew. About the spell, I mean. How else would people have recognized you?” He paused before a curt laugh erupted from him, though he quieted down when people looked over. “No, never mind. That’s a dumb question. You would’ve never wondered about something like that.”

“You knew me,” the unicorn said then, and Jungkook’s expression softened.

“Yeah. I did.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I told you already: I’m a magician. That’s why I realized you for what you are, and everything else in this museum for what they’re not. Though between you and me,” and here he looked up through his lashes shyly, “I think I would’ve known you even if I was blind.”

“But how? The curator said that this world isn’t one for magic anymore. For unicorns. If that’s true, then how can you say you are more real than she?”

That made the boy’s smile vanish like the unicorn had done a trick of his own. Jungkook bit his lip and cleared his throat once, twice, and when he finally answered it was in a low, sheepish tone.

“That’s a long story. A complicated one.”

“Then at least tell me, what kind of magic do you have?”

Jungkook coughed a second time. He averted his eyes and mumbled, “Umm… T-Tricks. Sleight of hand? I can work with cards, and once I set an orange on fire and it ended up tasting like a lemon. But the best one I’ve done so far is when I took a dead rose and turned it into a seed.” Then, as an afterthought, he winced. “It… _was_ a potato seed. But still.”

The unicorn blinked. Behind its pillar the cat yowled in a manner that clearly meant, _We’re doomed_.

“Okay, look, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not what you need right now, I get that,” Jungkook said and his face was sincere in its desperation. “But I know I can help you, that I’m _meant_ to help you — just like I knew you for a unicorn when no one else did. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

The gallery murmured around them in imitation of the chatting couple who exited into the western wing. Their departure left Jungkook standing shadowed and alone before the painting of the unicorn. Twilight streamed through the ceiling and pooled golden over silence’s empty podium.

“I think I can trust you,” said the unicorn. “Can you truly help me?”

“Yes.” The boy’s voice was firm. “I have to.”

The fox chirped sadly, and a raspy noise issued from the black dog’s cage with every wheeze. Something blue gleamed beneath the shade of the kneeling statue’s wings: the demon sat motionless, watching them from the corner of one unblinking eye. Jungkook looked up, accidentally met his gaze, and recoiled. “The spell on him’s almost worn down to nothing,” he said with a shudder. “We don’t have much time.”

Static crackled over the museum intercom — _“The Gallery of Magic Lost and Found is now closed. Please make your way to the exits, thank you.”_ — and the demon smiled in such a manner that the unicorn wished he hadn’t been looking. Jungkook took off his jacket to tie it around his waist. The unicorn thought back to the boy’s claims about being real (and the expression that had taken root in his eyes, a powerful self-assurance that blew away like dust) and wondered.

“All right. Here goes nothing.”

Jungkook pressed his palms together and took a deep breath. He lifted his head; the brown of his irises focused into needle-points as his lips parted and he uttered four words that burned the walls like embers. The unicorn started when the gallery shivered, and then the pentagonal room fractured around him into familiar tree trunks. Pear and apple perfumed the air, orange and lemon, and the unicorn felt the cool softness of grass swaying about his hooves. His heart leaped. His body went weightless. He had no idea how, but Jungkook had done it! He was free!

But when the unicorn took the first step forward to bound into his lilac home, the trickled laughter of cold iron stopped him dead in his tracks. Like wet paint the trees bled together into a wash as the gallery came back into focus. Jungkook swore loudly.

“Shit, sorry! I really thought that one would work.”

“It’s all right,” the unicorn whispered. “You were able to make the cage disappear. Try again.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched and he jerked a nod. This time around, he began humming a cold, low tune that seeped and settled into the unicorn’s bones. A whisper stirred in the dark corners of the room. The demon glanced up.

“Oh, no.” Jungkook’s face went white. “Oh, fuck, oh, _fuck_ , no no no _no!_ ”

Shadows cackled thick and wicked, and from the crevices and shaded places they stretched out fingers with too many joints towards him. The unicorn shrilled a challenge and reared but the black shapes barely spared him a look, already understanding that the strokes of brown paint trapped him inside. With an expression of wild terror, Jungkook stumbled backwards against the wall, trying to command the figures away to no avail. The cat bristled and yowled, slashing fully extended claws that seemed tiny as thorns. The shadows wouldn’t leave.

Chains rattled, and then the demon’s knifelike voice speared down every moving creature in that room. Jungkook looked over in shock but immediately wished that he hadn’t, because the grin he saw there slit the devil’s beautiful face in half into something indescribably hideous. The things in the dim corners of the gallery looked over and saw it as well; hollow voices screamed before they fled. The cat growled. The boy choked on a relieved sob, but for whatever reason that apparently caught the demon’s attention — for he turned and looked right at Jungkook.

And the whole world froze.

In his chest, Jungkook’s heart stopped mid-beat. His blood frosted over, adrenaline evaporating, and suddenly he forgot how to breathe and only when the demon narrowed blue eyes and smiled to coax his heart back into rhythm did he remember. Then those lips moved. Mouthed words at him. Slow. Deliberate. Jungkook tensed: _No_. The demon smiled, rolled his shoulders and spoke faster, more insistently. Those bluebell eyes were chilling in how abruptly they’d turned so tender. Jungkook’s breathing grew heavy and his vision blurred with tears. But the demon just kept on speaking, coaxing, until all he could see and all he could focus on were snatches of those words mouthed at him.

_You know, I know, you know, I can, I can, give you, you want, you need, all you, ever wanted, wished for, I can, I know, trust me, everything, I can, believe me, I will, trust me—_

The unicorn shrilled another cry and his horn blazed with the fiery brightness of a comet. The demon grimaced and fury fractured his sweet expression, thus breaking his grasp on Jungkook who gasped as his senses returned.

Like a watch being rewound, the world began to turn again.

“Fuck.” Jungkook’s voice shook. He turned away from the winged statue before those words could take a stronger hold of him. “I’m so sorry.”

The unicorn thought he could see the demon shake with muffled laughter. “Try again,” he said. “One more time. Try again.”

After a long moment, Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut, whispered, “Okay,” and staggered back onto his feet. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and murmured words that floated through the air like wisps of smoke or a secret. The painting’s iron frame trembled.

“Break,” muttered the boy, and when he opened them, his eyes had hardened to chips of dark ice. His pale callused fingers clenched into fists. “Break, come on, break, _break_ —”

“Stop,” the unicorn called, and panic entered his voice when the iron distorted itself and he shrank under its pitiful shrieks. The floor beneath him began to boil. “Stop!”

He didn’t know what Jungkook did or what magic he spoke to halt the spell; he only heard and saw the void stripping itself apart. But it stopped. The iron frame of the painting hissed and sizzled with rage, inches away from his face.

Jungkook’s arms fell limp to his sides. He looked as scared and tired as a child just woken from a nightmare. “I can’t try any more,” he said. “If I do, the next time I might not be able to…to…” His voice trailed off. He swallowed hard and carded a hand through his hair.

“You can do it,” the unicorn said, much more forgiving than Jungkook knew he deserved. “You’ve proved that you really do have magic. You can do this.”

But the boy shook his head, and a bitter smile crossed his face even though his eyes seemed an inch away from tears. “I don’t know how. I’m sorry, I really… I really thought that this would work. I _hoped_ that it’d… Okay. Okay, okay, maybe if we just look at this a little differently. You’re in a painting, and obviously my magic’s not going to get you out. So do you think if we try and just, I don’t know, cut open the canvas—”

“Vandalize that painting and you’ll trap him inside forever.”

The unicorn didn’t so much as blink at the unexpected voice; on the other hand, Jungkook let out a startled yell and jumped nearly a foot back. He gawked at the young man who had appeared by his side: long-legged, brunette, wiry arms crossed across a chest clad in a knitted sweater.

The stranger’s eyes narrowed pleasantly when he smiled: bottle-green and flecked with gold.

“It’s _you_ ,” Jungkook exclaimed, and the young man laughed outright.

“It’s Jimin,” he corrected with a wink, “and if you really want to help get the unicorn out of here before _he_ escapes, then you ought to get a move on, Jungkook-ah.”

Jungkook and the unicorn stared in speechlessness and wordless puzzlement, respectively, as the stranger dug around in the pockets of his jeans. ( _Where would the stuff in them go when he’s a cat?_ the former wondered.) He then issued a triumphant noise halfway between a chirp and a chuckle and, with a wide grin, held up a ring of polished keys. The metal jingled and jangled merrily.

“Figured our great magician might appreciate some back-up,” Jimin hummed. “So I managed to snatch these from the old man while he and Professor Man weren’t looking. Sorry,” he now addressed the unicorn, although for some reason Jimin didn’t quite meet eyes with the creature as he spoke. “I know that you of all people deserve to be rescued by an amazing and secret teen wizard, but I guess a pickpocket’s gonna have to do.”

“You’re a shapeshifter.” Jungkook picked his jaw off the ground but his doe-eyes remained wide. “But I thought… Everyone says your kind’s all—”

“Yah, brat, dunno if you noticed but this isn’t exactly the best time,” the older boy cut him off. “Geonho might be back any moment. Can your magic reveal stuff? Like a hidden lock?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, I can do that. You just make things appear, kinda like that pigeon-in-a-handkerchief trick except easier.” Then he realized what he just said and clamped down on his bottom lip, mortified. The corner of Jimin’s mouth quirked.

“Good. So do your pigeon thing, and I’ll figure out which key we need.”

The unicorn noticed that the gallery had fallen silent. He felt the eyes of the caged animals on him, felt their bated breath. Within the winged statue the demon began to strain slowly against his chains, shoulders twitching just perceptibly. “Hurry,” urged the unicorn. “Please hurry.”

Jungkook ducked his head and nodded, inhaling. An angled word fell hesitant from his throat, and the iron frame shivered. There was an agonizing moment in which nothing happened at all before the decorative etchings on the metal twitched, then began to swirl and eddy until they coalesced into a whirlpool along the leftmost edge. The engraved flower-lines hollowed and bloomed into a keyhole, the sight of which made Jungkook perk up in an instant.

“Got it!” He turned to beam at Jimin, who returned an equally bright grin.

“Nice work! Now it’s my turn.”

Already the shapeshifter was fumbling with the keys and fitted one into the lock. The cold iron seethed and spat out the key; Jimin growled under his breath and inserted another. In response, the warped metal frame gave a metallic squeal of, “Some magician! Some magician!”

Jungkook flushed bright red. “Screw you,” he muttered while Jimin laughed and tried a third key. This time it clicked when he turned it, and the lock snapped open with one last creak of contempt. The pupils of his gold-green eyes seemed to constrict and he swung the painting open like a door.

“You’re free,” Jimin said and looked up at the unicorn. He side-stepped out of the way to stand by Jungkook instead. “Go on now.”

The unicorn hardly needed any prompting. He leaped down and out of the painting as lightly as a cloud, and Jungkook started and drew back. Surprised, Jimin glanced over to see a mixture of wonder and fear flicker across the boy’s face.

“Oh,” Jungkook breathed, eyes fixed on the snowy white creature. “It was different when he was in there. He looked smaller, and not so… Oh. Oh, man. Wow.”

The gallery rang with the sound of the unicorn’s hooves on cool marble tiles and the rattle of chains. Jimin shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the winged statue and saw the demon doubled over: forehead pressed to the floor of his cage, shoulders completely rigid. Laughing between ragged breaths.

The spell on him was down to threads.

The shapeshifter’s breath caught and he shoved at one enthralled Jungkook with his elbow.

“Snap out of it. We gotta go _now_.”

The unicorn shook out his mane and felt the coldness of imprisonment drop from his shoulders like a shroud. Darkness bled into the gallery through the ceiling; the sun had already sunk behind adjacent buildings and below the horizon. Then Geonho’s voice boomed through the halls.

“Who’s there? The museum has closed, you were supposed to leave several minutes ago!”

Jungkook had less than a second to shoot Jimin a panicked look before Geonho slammed through the doors of the eastern wing. The old man needed no more than a glance to understand: the two boys standing frozen side-by-side, and the brown painting’s frame swung agape. His eyes froze on the unicorn for one mere, startled moment before that heavy brow plummeted and his face contorted in rage. With greater volume than should’ve been possible for someone his age, he screamed for Eun-seo.

“Professor! Professor! We have intruders! Thieves!” He started advancing on the boys. “ _They’re taking the unicorn, Professor!_ ”

“Run!” Jungkook shouted at the unicorn. “Get out of here!” Then without another backwards look he charged straight at Geonho. Jimin yelped and dashed after him; clearly he hadn’t expected the boy to be as fast as he was.

“Whoa, shit, a music major who works out? Seriously?! Jungkook, you can’t freakin’ manhandle the elderly, that’s not— Hey, _stop!_ ”

In the midst of the ensuing chaos, the unicorn walked calmly around the museum gallery. He touched his seashell horn to where he now knew the locks to be, opening the paintings and crumbling the sculptures to nothingness. One by one he set them free: the fox, the dog, the arthritic lion, and others who all lumbered down the halls of the museum to freedom. He did pause in front of Echo and Narcissus’ portrait, lingering for a second before he relented and opened that, too.

The aroma of daffodils drifted out into the gallery: a thin ribbon of fragrance that soon faded.

“Stay down!” Jungkook yelled. He was wrestling a shockingly-tough Geonho to the ground, arms thrown around the old man’s waist, while Jimin in turn tried to pry him off said elder. “I’ll turn you into a frog and throw you into the Han River, gramps! I-I’ll make your head sprout grass and your teeth turn blue!”

“What are you saying, boy?” Geonho wheezed a laugh and crushed a sinewy arm around Jungkook’s neck. “You’re no magician, there’s no such thing anymore. Even Eun-seo only knows how to lock things in and make them seem like something else. But _you_ think you’re a sorcerer? _Ha!_ I doubt you could even turn cream into butter!”

“Oh, for the love of… Get off of him!”

Geonho shouted and jerked his arm away from Jungkook; Jimin had raked sharp nails across the old man’s face, tearing thin red lines over his cheeks. The shapeshifter then seized a coughing Jungkook under the armpits and yanked him away.

“T-Thanks, Jimin-ssi…!”

“I can’t believe you almost got strangled by a geezer, Jungkook-ah.”

“Y'know what? Fuck off.”

But whatever retort Jimin planned to shoot back went unheard because right then, a cold draft blew through the museum. It stirred the unicorn’s mane and he hesitated a few paces from the demon’s statue. Feathers tore from the suspended wings to flutter down to the floor, dark as soot. The demon grinned viciously at the unicorn as he twisted against chains that could barely hold him. The metal links screeched under the strain. He curled back his lip to laugh and the sound crawled along the walls, burned whatever it touched.

The demon’s shoulders shook and twitched. His lips parted enough to show tongue and white teeth, blue eyes wide and glinting. The scabby wounds down his back writhed as if worms squirmed beneath his skin; then when they split open, dark fluid leaked out like paint or pus.

Jungkook, Jimin, and even Geonho were petrified where they stood, staring at the shuddering demon in horror. The unicorn began to walk towards him, and upon noticing that, Jungkook shouted and lurched onto his feet.

“NO! Don’t do it, just go, you idiot, just _run!_ He’ll kill you if you let him out, don’t you get it?!”

But the unicorn stared hard at the demon, whose ceaseless laughter filled the gallery with an insidious darkness. The devil’s glacier eyes seized the unicorn’s heart and drew him closer. Red lips moved inaudibly.

 _I’ll kill you_.

“Yes,” whispered the unicorn.

 _I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you if you set me free._ That laughter: vile and swarming, like the black growths crawling out from the severed skin of his back. _Do it! Set me free!_

Jungkook yelled something and surged forward. Jimin grabbed his arm, fear stamped across his face. The unicorn lowered his head.

Very, very lightly, the tip of his horn touched the statue’s chest.

The stone cracked, and the demon _roared_.

With a sound as though the sky had rent itself apart, black feathers ripped out of the demon’s back who threw back his head in wild exhilaration. His chains broke like strings. The spell shredded. Ichor splattered over the floor, oozed down that torn back and stained the cloth of his robes. The demon spread his wings — viscous fluid dripping, strung stickily from feather to feather — and with a powerful flap shattered his statue into pieces. Another flap lifted him towards the ceiling and blasted hot air over the others’ faces. Jungkook, Jimin, and Geonho lifted their arms defensively while the unicorn stood firm yet, gazing up at the freed demon.

Because out of the void of his cage, out of the wreckage of stone and feathers the demon bloomed, thundering with laughter now triumphant. The moonrise shrank behind clouds to hide, and the demon’s hands were clenched into claws. More than ever before he seemed both utterly glorious and utterly abhorrent.

The demon howled and swooped down at the unicorn, who reared with a wondering cry. Those black wings blocked out the approaching night. “You’re like me!” the unicorn called, eyes wide. “You and I!”

Hands that no longer looked human bore down towards his eyes but the unicorn struck his horn up at them. He caught the rotten stench of fresh ichor at once and the demon screeched, clutching his nails over burned palms. He swept away and every booming stroke of his wings slit the air in half. Bluebell eyes burned hotter than fire. The two myths circled one another like planetary orbits, massive and fantastical. The unicorn knew the demon would strike again.

But then he heard footsteps, and one of the boys cried out, and a familiar voice shrieked laughter. “I had you!” Eun-seo cried; she stared up at the circling demon with a half-mad smile. “I had you both! There’s my legacy, my immortality! There’s my _magic!_ I _held you!_ ”

The demon laughed, teeth gleaming, and he tucked his wings in and dove. He shot by the unicorn so close that one razor-sharp feather sliced open the beast’s shoulder. His claws flashed bronze and the unicorn heard Eun-seo utter a hysterical giggle before the demon reached her. Then her voice cut off as her bones shattered.

“Jungkook,” Jimin whispered, staring at the boy’s frozen back. “Jungkook, don’t watch. Don’t watch.”

The unicorn turned to find Jungkook looking straight at him. His eyes were huge and teary, fists clasped so tightly that they shook. His face — his too-young face — was crumbling apart with fear as the unicorn studied it.

“No,” he answered the boy’s breakneck heartbeat. “Don’t watch. Don’t run. Come with me instead.”

And then he stepped past Jungkook, and Jimin pounced to catch the boy when his knees gave way. The shapeshifter turned him around to look him in the eye. Jungkook stared back, the terror in his face only mounting, especially when the demon behind them snarled thrilled and bloody.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” Jimin’s voice seemed to soothe the boy’s nerves much like how a cat’s purr would; the arm he slung over his shoulders worked even better. “It’s gonna be all right. Just walk, okay? Come on… Yeah, that’s it, you got it, just keep walking. I got you, Jungkook.”

“Come with me,” chimed the unicorn again. The world outside had gone dark, sunless and moonless, but the two boys kept their eyes on the unicorn’s body which, like the moon, glowed gentle and white and ancient. Through the haze of panic Jungkook counted his steps, forcing himself to follow Jimin and put one foot in front of the other. He faltered only once: when he heard feet scrabble behind them, the clap of wings, and Geonho’s terrified, interrupted scream. The boy froze and whimpered. Jimin squeezed his shoulder lightly.

“Shhh, we’re okay. Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” he hummed as encouragement. Jungkook shivered but stumbled forward again after another second.

The unicorn didn’t look back but rather spoke over his shoulder to the boys. His voice was quiet, gentle: “You must never run from anything immortal. That’ll only attract their attention more. Think of something else, do your tricks, fill your head with song… But whatever you do, don’t run.”

So the three of them fled together, slipping through the dark halls of the museum which would later join the gallery’s cacophony of slaughter as the demon destroyed the rest of the false artifacts. But for now they resounded with the soft echo of Jimin’s voice — the lullaby he’d sung to the unicorn — to which Jungkook closed his eyes and listened closely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The](http://images6.fanpop.com/image/photos/40000000/The-Wings-Tour-Trailer-bts-40036667-500-231.gif) [demon](https://66.media.tumblr.com/5375d262b90b12cd40bcf4889884e39b/tumblr_ogula9P2EE1vwpgbso8_500.gif) [set](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3a55353a1458442eebf39cd9ae28fb5a/tumblr_oguj78swEC1vvw947o2_400.gif) [free.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/803129c7becb13dc07fc5ac504aa4a46/tumblr_oguijdF0Nk1rbs18co6_500.gif)


	4. Ma City

****“Sorry, just give me— I need to—”

Jungkook staggered away from Jimin’s arm to retch. Up ahead, the unicorn paused to look back at them, white lion-tail switching. Jimin winced, sympathetic, and put his hand on Jungkook’s back where he rubbed comforting circles as the younger boy dry-heaved against the wall, over and over. The alleyway stank of trash and damp brick.

“There you go, it’s all right. We’re outside now. We’re okay.”

Jungkook sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of one hand. He braced both arms on his knees and for the second time that night, tried to remember how to breathe. “W-We should’ve… We should’ve done something,” he said in a tiny voice, then looked up at Jimin. “But instead we just _left_ them… Geonho—”

He stopped when Jimin touched his shoulder. Those gold-green eyes fixed on him an unblinking gaze. The shapeshifter’s handsome face was severe.

“There was nothing we could’ve done to help,” Jimin said, “not without getting killed ourselves. Geonho was an accident, but Eun-seo never would've gotten out of there alive. She shouldn't have ever messed with a real demon, a real unicorn.” Then his eyes became tender and he reached up to tousle Jungkook’s hair with both hands. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. Look, you got _him_ out, didn’t you?”

Jungkook glanced at the unicorn, who stood watching with his sea-deep, indecipherable expression, and then back to Jimin and nodded. Jimin grinned.

“Though I still can’t believe you fucking tackled an old man. Like holy shit, Jungkook-ah, he could’ve been your grandfather at his age!”

“Can you literally not?”

The unicorn remained silent while Jimin laughed, and Jungkook looked at him again, this time a bit bewildered. Neon signs and streetlights shone into the alleyway, where they illuminated the unicorn so that he glowed strangely beneath their grimy, multicolored light. The spirals of his horn gleamed like beacons.

“No. I don’t feel bad that we left them behind,” the unicorn replied to Jungkook’s unspoken question. “I cannot. It’s not a part of me to regret. I know how to feel sorrow. Sadness. But that’s not really the same.”

“Oh.” Jungkook pressed his lips together and shifted his eyes down at the ground. “So, um… What are you going to do now?”

“I'm looking for my people, for others like me. Have you seen them, magician?”

“Ha. Not while I was awake, no,” Jungkook said with a brief, sardonic smile. “But my grandfather believed. He was always sure there had been at least a few _girin_ alive when he was a boy. Then again, that would still be a pretty long time ago.”

“Never,” Jimin piped up. He stared at the unicorn from his spot beside Jungkook, who suddenly realized that Jimin had been very careful to keep the young magician between himself and the unicorn. “And I know I’d remember even a glimpse of you.”

“I see… Nonetheless, that means my people may have been around as recently as your grandfather’s childhood, magician, which truly is a comfort for me to hear.”

(The unicorn was also thinking of the hikers’ grandmother again as he spoke — thus he failed to notice the exhausted sadness that touched Jungkook’s face ever so briefly.)

“A butterfly spoke to me about angels, and the sea, and a big city, and the curator knew about my search,” the unicorn continued. “I think that perhaps then, this place may be my best chance at finding the others. I don't know where else I ought to look.”

Jimin’s face went slack. “Hold on. Are you kidding? That's it? What the hell, you were sent off on a Lord-of-the-Rings-type journey with literally the vaguest clues _possible!_ ”

“Um, Jimin-ssi? You’re not helping.”

“But Jungkook-ah, we’re in the middle of Seoul. Fucking _Seoul!_ Could there be a worst place to stick a unicorn in?! Even if that ‘clue’ about the sea is anything reliable, the closest beach is still over an hour away _by_ _car_ , and he’ll either be killed by the insane traffic or chased down by cops before then.” Jimin hissed and shook a rough hand through his hair.

“Jimin-ssi! Chill!” Jungkook smacked his arm, casting a nervous look at the silent unicorn. “Look. It's been a long evening for all of us. Let's just go home and then in the morning we can try to figure this out.”

Jimin looked at him. The unicorn looked at him. A second later, Jungkook realized why.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” The boy blushed and his eyes flicked over to the unicorn, shy again. “Well, I guess you can… I mean if you _want_ , you can stay over at my house…? For the night, you know,” he squeaked. Jimin smirked but didn’t say anything. He honestly couldn’t: the air tremored around the neon-lit unicorn in a way that beautified even the mildewed alley, and neither boy could imagine him housed within the plaster and wood of an urban apartment. It felt a borderline insult to do so.

The unicorn flicked his mane and peered out at the street as a group of men stumbled past the alley, too blinded by drunkenness and their own loud laughter to notice its inhabitants. “It _is_ late,” he said quietly. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to carry on.”

Jungkook’s face brightened. “Okay! So, right now I think we’re on…”

“Baekbeom-ro,” supplied Jimin without missing a beat.

“Ah, then we're almost out of Hyochang-dong! My apartment’s off of Saechang-ro in Yongmun, so luckily it doesn’t look like we don’t have all that far to go.”

“Hmm, that’s still quite a ways, but I guess it could be worse,” Jimin said, and he threw in a shrug and a smile. “What’s your address, Jungkook-ah?”

The question made Jungkook pause then. He gawked at the older boy and stammered, “Wait, wait. You’re not coming with us, are you?”

Jimin’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Obviously I am.”

“Wh…?! No, _no_ way, you can’t—”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes! Yes, it is! I don’t exactly have the biggest place, Jimin-ssi, and my landlady’s already strict as hell with her guest policy.”

“Jungkook-ah.” Jimin’s smile grew. “You’re forgetting I can _make_ it so that I don’t take up space. She won’t even know you had people over. Besides, somebody’s gotta make sure the two of you get there safe and sound and I know these streets better than most. In fact, I bet you twenty-five thousand won I’ll find you a route that guarantees we won’t run into a single living soul. And considering who you’re bringing home? I’d say that’s a damn good deal.”

Jungkook glowered at him for the whole of two seconds before it fell into a pained grimace. He muttered, “I don’t _have_ twenty-five thousand won.”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Me neither. That’s not the point. Take it or leave it, kiddo.”

 

 

(Jungkook took it.)

 

* * *

Farther off in the westernmost area of Wonhyoro-dong, a phone blared. The screen lit up bright white and spat an excerpted rap song into the darkness, loud enough to jolt the bedroom’s inhabitant awake. Said young man groaned and rolled onto his stomach. He wormed an arm free from the tangle of his comforter to grope for the phone, grabbing it on the third try. The alarm cut off with a tap of his thumb, and he squinted at the blinding screen, trying to make out the time through sleep-sticky eyes.

_11:25 PM._

Nope. Fuck that.

In one movement he hit the power button and tossed the phone aside, face already back in his pillow. Yet not even five minutes later, someone began to pound on his door. He scowled. _Dammit._

“Hyung! It’s almost eleven-thirty, and don’t think I forgot that you’re working a double shift tonight. You better get up soon!”

“ _Hughhhhhhhh_ ,” was the sullen reply, and the person outside had the gall to fucking laugh at him. He growled into his pillow what was _supposed_ to be a death threat but emerged more a sleep-drunk grumble. Whatever. It was understood anyway.

“Okay, hyung. I’m putting on a timer and then calling a cab so there’s no way you can be late this time around. You’ve got, mmm…ten minutes to get off your ass!”

“Go to hell,” he managed. Another laugh answered, then he heard bare feet make their way towards the apartment kitchen. The bedroom withdrew once more into its warm cotton hush. There was a long minute before the young man shifted back onto his side. He rubbed at his eyes and reached for his phone—

Oh.

Right, he forgot. Shit.

Groggily he stared at his stuttering fingers. He mouthed a curse; he hadn’t stretched before flopping over to take a nap and now it was acting up because of that. The thumb cramped towards his palm while the index and middle fingers touched and pulled apart with every spasm. And it only stopped after he clamped his other hand around them — after he shoved rough fingertips into the palm, pushed them along the muscles and strained tendons again, and again, and again. Only then did it stop.

He picked up his phone.

_11:31 PM._

* * *

There was so much to hear and see and smell in this bright, cold-iron city that the unicorn honestly felt overwhelmed. He’d gone from the peace of isolation to this place where a million hearts beat in his ears at once, and the stink of the black road spun all around. The asphalt and concrete smoldered beneath his hooves. Autumn blew on his ears and warmed its hands at the entrances of late-night bars.

True to his word, Jimin proved himself a most helpful guide. He moved through the alleys and avenues with impressive confidence, and the unicorn watched him flit between lean boy and shadowy feline to scout ahead. His brisk strides ate up the ground, shoes scuffed and soundless as a cat’s paws, and he whistled long and low to signal whenever the coast was clear. Several times Jimin would stop dead in his tracks, head tilted to one side as he listened for something Jungkook couldn’t detect himself.

(The younger boy followed close behind and would thus bump into Jimin a lot, much to his annoyance.)

“You don’t have to help me,” Jungkook tried at one point, after they had crossed the train lines that officially meant they were in Yongmun-dong.

Jimin paused to peek over one shoulder at him. Those gold-flecked eyes were bemused. “I’m not doing this for you,” he said, but in such a gentle way that Jungkook almost didn’t feel offended.

Almost.

The unicorn rarely spoke to the boys either, although not out of any airs on his part. Rather, now that there were no barriers between them Jungkook seemed timid and unsure of how to act around him. Round brown eyes peeked up to stare in wonder at the moon-white creature, but each time the unicorn looked back they snapped away. Meanwhile Jimin veered wide to avoid the unicorn altogether. The shapeshifter would toss him furtive looks before disappearing down another alleyway, calling them forward in a sing-song tone.

Jimin kept his promise. Even Jungkook had to be impressed when they didn’t run into a single person along the way: quite the feat in a city like Seoul.

Still, they passed nearly two hours walking in that uneasy quiet.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook breathed. He stared up at his apartment door like it was the gate to paradise. “Hooooooly _shit_ , we made it!”

The unicorn’s hooves were dancing over the iron patio and he snorted with discomfort. Jimin leaned against the rusty handrail to peer around at the dark, dingy apartments; Jungkook had told them in a sheepish tone that the neighborhood had yet to procure money for streetlights. The older boy turned his head and the frown on his face shifted to a half-smirk as he said, “So now you owe me twenty-five thousand won.”

“Just get in before someone sees you,” Jungkook hissed back as he fumbled around his pockets for the key. He unlocked the door and then all but herded Jimin and the unicorn inside. The screen rattled in its frame even when he closed it lightly, and Jungkook grimaced. Nervously he lingered, checking and double-checking the peephole before he was finally satisfied that the landlady wouldn’t come swinging a broom about the noise.

“Wow, Jungkook-ah,” came Jimin’s sarcastic voice. Jungkook looked over to see the shapeshifter moving aside a stack of haphazardly-piled papers and textbooks with his foot. Already he'd slipped out of his shoes. “I always thought people were exaggerating the whole ‘poor college student’ thing, but hot damn have you opened my eyes.”

The boy flushed and swatted Jimin away from his books. “ _Told_ you I don’t have much room. And keep your voice down! These walls are thinner than rice paper.”

Jungkook really hadn’t been exaggerating. In fact, his place was less a proper apartment and more a two-room studio, one of which was the lavatory. The main living area served as combined kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom which resulted in a rectangular space with a sink and microwave against one wall, and against the windowside, notebooks and pencils piled into a bookshelf Jungkook had gotten for a bargain price. His emptied schoolbag rested atop blankets spread out in the room’s center for bedding. The comforter was messy and bunched over a Jungkook-shaped imprint.

“Hmm.” Jimin smiled and sat down cross-legged on the thin pillow. The unicorn appeared preoccupied with gazing out of the window curtains at adjacent buildings. Silence enveloped the room, thick with uncertainty.

Jungkook’s watch blinked, _1:14 AM_.

The boy did a once-over of his home and its guests and then ducked his head under the pretense of taking off his shoes. He placed them by the door and turned to Jimin with a wordless plea in his eyes. But the older boy didn’t see it; he had picked up Jungkook’s discarded music theory textbook which he now sat flipping through, fully engrossed.

“Are…”

Jungkook’s eyes darted over towards the trash, where scraped ramyeon cups brimmed to overflowing. The sight yanked at something in his chest until shame abrupt and tear-hot burst over him like a flood. His knees wobbled. He blinked fast:  _What the hell am I doing?_ What was he _trying_ to do, really? Nevermind the foray into the museum, because at least he had a legitimate excuse for that, the guise of an attempt to find something within ( _despite_ ) the gallery’s falseness. Because if he didn’t find what he was looking for there, it would’ve been just fine: oh well, at least he tried, right?

But now this — _this_ was something else. Something else entirely. He braced one hand on the door and tried not to tremble. _What am I doing?_

As if out of instinct, his gaze went to the framed photos at the bottom of the bookshelf.

Jungkook had to gulp in order to speak again.

“A-Are you guys…hungry?”

Jimin paused mid-page turn. His cat-irises flicked up to regard Jungkook with an expression the latter couldn’t quite read. And maybe some of the shame showed on the boy’s face, or maybe he simply looked as small as he suddenly felt — but whatever Jimin saw melted the coolness in his eyes somewhat. The curves and lines of his face relaxed so that this time when he smiled, it seemed warmer and even a tiny, tiny bit pitying.

“I am, actually,” he said brightly. “I haven’t really had much to eat today.”

Right on cue, Jungkook’s stomach grumbled. He grabbed at his torso in mortification while Jimin toppled backwards, one hand clapped over his laughter. The unicorn glanced at them in bemusement. The way he gleamed under the room’s fluorescent light bulbs made Jungkook blink and put on a small, awkward smile. Without a word, he ignored Jimin’s complaints and pushed both him and the blankets closer towards the kitchen-wall. The unicorn regarded him with a long puzzled look. Then he came over and lay down in the newly-created space beside the makeshift bed.

Jimin stopped laughing and glanced away.

After rooting around in his cabinets to confirm that yes, he literally had nothing but cup noodles and seasoned soybean paste, Jungkook filled three cups with tap water and then arranged them in the microwave to cook. Jimin watched him do so from his seat on the blankets, with a look on his face that could only be described as glowing.

“Do you only have the original flavor? It’s hard for me to believe you wouldn’t get tired of it.”

“Well, actually I do get pretty sick of it sometimes,” Jungkook said, making a face. “But original is cheapest. I actually like ham flavor best, but those are a bit more expensive and you can’t really get them in bulk, either.”

“How do you pay for them, then? Do you work?”

“I try. Most of the time it’s just whatever part-time job I can get, like busboy or convenience store cashier.” He shrugged. “I mean, it puts money in my pocket so I can’t complain. I got into Seoul National with a scholarship so I’m honestly just happy that I don’t have to worry about tuition or anything…”

“Mm.”

“And…” Jungkook stuttered, and suddenly the wall seemed to be extremely fascinating to him. His fingertips fidgeted across the microwave top. “Sometimes I also…busk. Singing. Street magic, mostly. That’s where I transformed the orange, where I practice my card tricks. It’s not _bad_ , like, kids enjoy the shows a lot and there are good days when not all their parents come up to tell me I’m being a terrible role model and wasting my time. Retail’s much worse, I think.”

That made Jimin snort, which in turn unwound the tension from Jungkook’s shoulders and he smiled back with much more ease. The microwave’s timer broiled down to one second, and Jungkook quickly punched the door open before the buzzer could go off. The smell of noodles and spicy stock billowed out into the apartment. Jimin sat up straighter, eyes alight, and the unicorn stretched his neck over at the curious fragrance. Jungkook pulled out the cups and set them down on a stray workbook in lieu of a coaster. While he looked around for utensils, he cast a not-so-discreet look at Jimin which the older boy noticed straightaway.

“What?”

“N— It’s nothing! I was just thinking…” Jungkook bit his lip and looked down, digging plastic forks out of a box on the sink counter. “You should, um, be careful with that, Jimin-ssi.”

Jimin looked utterly bemused as he accepted the fork held out to him. “Why? You didn’t put anything in my ramyeon, did you?”

“ _No!_ It’s just… It’s hot!” The shapeshifter blinked. Jungkook scowled and covered his red face with one hand. “You know. Cats aren’t supposed to eat hot food or something. I read about it once online.”

A beat. Jimin burst out laughing.

“Shhh! _Shhh_ , the neighbors are going to hear you, Jimin-ssi, _shut up!_ ” Panicked, Jungkook sprung forward and slapped a hand over Jimin’s mouth. The older boy sputtered and doubled over, giggles muffled but still coming strong.

“I-I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you just said that or how _serious_ you were about it!” Jimin pushed away Jungkook’s hand and wiped at his eyes. His grin lit up his entire face and he winked. “I’m only a cat half the time, Jungkook-ah. The other fifty-percent, I’m a normal human being who can handle hot food as well as you can.”

Jungkook turned aside and mumbled, “Noted.” He ignored how Jimin snickered as he pulled from the dishrack a large bowl, into which he dumped the third cup of ramyeon. Like Jimin, he sat down cross-legged and set the bowl in front of the unicorn. The great beast flicked his ears forward; his thin-boned front legs were tucked beneath his chest.

“Here. This one’s yours.”

The unicorn blinked large dark eyes at him, then down at the porcelain bowl of soup and noodles. Curls of steam wafted into his velvety face and fogged his horn. “It’s food?”

“Not the best, but yeah,” Jimin said helpfully. He had already begun to slurp at his own cup, wearing an expression of pure bliss. “Man, I’d forgotten just how _good_ ramyeon can be.”

“What he said,” Jungkook muttered, picking up his cup. “But if you don’t want it, that’s all right. I can run down to the store to get you something else. They’re open twenty-four-seven.”

The unicorn didn’t say anything, contemplating his reflection on the surface of the reddish soup while the two boys ate eagerly. When he looked up again, it was to level Jungkook with that calm immortal gaze. The boy’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

“Magician, you’ve set me free. You’ve taken me into your home and offered me food, and for that I owe you a favor. What would you wish from me?”

Jimin stopped eating as well; he chewed slowly and looked between Jungkook and the unicorn. The former had been rendered speechless. He didn’t seem to know where to put his eyes, so that they kept running anxiously from the unicorn to Jimin to the ramyeon cup in his hand. His doe-expression was wide open like a book: shocked, then hopeful, then hesitant, then unduly apprehensive and (for some strange reason) grievous. It took him a moment to gather his words.

“Whatever you plan to do from here…” In this lighting, Jungkook’s irises were dark as the night outside. “Please take me with you.”

Jimin choked. The unicorn’s ears pinned back and he moved his head. At that, Jungkook leaned forward as if he wished to follow then and there.

“You said that Professor Man told you it’s not a world for unicorns anymore — and she was right. People won’t recognize you for what you truly are, and even then they won’t take well to a creature like you in the middle of the city. It’ll be impossible to find the others if you can’t even walk down the street without causing a riot.” He stopped and rocked backwards, lips pressed into a thin line. “Beyond that…maybe I can help you. I can explain things to you, help you understand this era, this century. And you can’t go wrong with a magician by your side, right?”

“Your magic sucks ass, though.”

“Can you _literally not_ , I’m trying to advertise myself!”

The shapeshifter just laughed breathlessly as Jungkook shoved him sideways, almost spilling ramyeon on himself when he did. The unicorn looked away and out the window, the world beyond the curtains black with slumber. The wind whispered against the glass and made a sound like the sea.

“I’ve never had anyone travel with me before,” said the unicorn. He took a deep breath. “But then, I’ve never been seen as a horse, or caged within a painting, or put under a spell before. There is always a time for firsts, I suppose, and somehow I don’t believe your company will be the worst of them.”

Jungkook began to grin but, once again, he caught himself and tossed the expression aside, opting for a grave look that his young face turned childish. Still, his eyes shone brighter than newborn stars. “You mean it? You’ll let me come with you?”

“Yes,” the unicorn murmured, “though I wish you would ask for something else.”

Now the light went out of Jungkook’s face, and he seemed to crumple around the edges with sadness. “I do, too,” he said quietly, and looked at his curled fingers. “But I get the feeling that even you can’t give me what I really want.”

Jimin glanced at the boy over the rim of his cup, the flecked gold in his irises molten. The unicorn felt the older boy’s sympathy sneak across his skin, across his snowy heart, contagious, and thought of the self-destructive magic Jungkook had attempted mere hours ago.

“No,” the beast replied. “I cannot make you a true magician. I cannot turn you into what you are not.”

“I didn’t think so.” Jungkook smiled a rueful smile. “But it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not.”

Silence fell again after that. The unicorn exhaled and turned to Jimin next. “And you, shape-changer. You sang to me and also helped me escape. What do you wish for?”

The older boy stirred his leftover broth for a time, apparently fascinated by the bits of green onion that swirled around his fork. “If it’s also fine,” he said, eyes trained on the ramyeon, “I’d like to join you too.” Then he looked up and smirked at the slack-jawed shock on Jungkook’s face. “We both know you wouldn’t have been able to get out of that gallery without my help, and they do say two heads are better than one. I’ve nothing else to do with my time, anyways. Might as well tag along.”

“There’s always a time for firsts,” murmured the unicorn, and then sighed. “Very well.”

Jungkook sputtered in protest but Jimin just grinned.

* * *

There was something about the unicorn’s sleeping form that rendered Jungkook unable to close his eyes or avert his gaze. Instead, he stared wide-eyed as the mythical beast breathed out and dainty nostrils flared. One ear twitched. Jungkook had never seen a creature so _bright_ before; the unicorn seemed to emit faint light so that it became visible even in the apartment darkness — like snow under moonlight, or stars caught in a cobweb, or the foam on ocean waves. His snout rested just on the edge of Jungkook’s blankets, close enough that the boy could see every whisker on his narrow velvet nose. He had eyelashes, too, long and the ivory color of dust. That spiraled horn stretched and cast a lengthy shadow across Jungkook’s motionless body, gleaming with its own inner light.

Jungkook couldn’t sleep. He barely even breathed, fearful of disturbing the unicorn in some way. Clouds and the window curtains obscured the moon outside — yet all shadows seemed to flee from the creature lying next to him. With utmost caution Jungkook rolled onto his side, hands clutched hesitant against his chest. The unicorn shifted, sighed, and slept on. Jungkook could see his heartbeat where it tapped in that soft spot below the throat.

Above his head, Jungkook’s watch blinked.  _2:58 AM._

“Don’t touch him.”

He almost jumped out of his skin. The unicorn’s breath hitched at the abrupt movement, but soon enough evened out again. Blinking as though he’d been roused from a trance, Jungkook lifted his eyes to the window.

Jimin reclined on the top of the creaking bookshelf, where he looked totally at ease despite the precarious position. A stripe of starlight poured in through the gap between the curtains. It scattered shadows across the older boy’s features and ignited his cat-eyes with a hard green glitter. He looked inhuman. Goosebumps stood along Jungkook’s arms. Jimin was staring right at him.

The unicorn made a high, soft noise in his sleep and Jimin’s eyes flickered to him, where they softened into candleflames. “For both his sake and yours,” said Jimin after another pause. He turned back to Jungkook. “Don’t touch him.”

Despite the lax tone, the warning in his words rang clear. Jungkook gulped and nodded, and the hardness in Jimin’s eyes vanished completely this time when he smiled. The gray knitwear of his sweater hung off one shoulder: fluffed and cozy, like fur or a cloud.

“The sun’ll be up soon. Try to get some sleep.” He peeked through the curtains. “We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Jungkook nodded again. His eyelids drooped and he realized that he truly was very sleepy as a lethargic fogginess crept over him, now unhindered by the spell of the unicorn. He let his eyes close and focused the remainder of his lucidity on the softness of his pillow, the warmth of his covers. The steady, steady rhythm of the unicorn’s breathing. His own heartbeat.

But first he had to ask.

“Jimin-ssi…?”

“Yeah?”

It emerged as a mumble into his pillow: “Are you the last of your kind, too?”

No answer. Jungkook tried to open his eyes to look at Jimin, at the shapeshifter’s expression, but he was way too tired. Every muscle felt like jelly and sluggishly he imagined himself submerged in a still, stagnant ocean.

Before falling asleep, he heard fabric rustle, and Jimin whispered, “Call me hyung, Jungkook-ah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, [Jimin and Taemin have finally danced together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4J905VsJb4M) and I'm yeLLING-


	5. Autumn Leaves

He had always told himself that he was going to kill his boss one day, but as he plodded through the drowsy streets, the young man couldn't help but feel he had just missed a golden opportunity to do exactly that.

His shoe scuffed against a crack in the pavement and he stumbled, but then caught himself and straightened with a frustrated grunt. Pathetic: he couldn't even manage to walk straight, he felt so tired and angry and absolutely sick of everything. Already the beginnings of a headache were swelling within his temples. Fuck… This was not how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to be getting his life together, to be picking himself up, _recovering_. Not whatever the fuck this was.

The man clenched his jaw and hunched deeper into his coat with a scowl. The early morning cold stung his nose and hands. Lined in rows along the street, two-story windows peered down on him dark and critical, baring steel garage doors for mouths. Birds lifted into the air where the pallid sky suspended them, like flakes of black paint. Everything looked mist-blue and surreal.

Dread stirred and sat uneasily in the deepest pit of his stomach, feeling not unlike he'd swallowed a rock. What was he going to do now? What was he going to say? His friends had been so happy for him, so supportive and encouraging and _hopeful_ that he would truly prefer to step feet-first off a ledge than come home to tell them what happened. He would deserve it, too: him and his mouth and his fucking boss and that man’s utter inability to just give him a break with the constant criticism and the constant condescension and his own constant attempts to _ignore_ all of it when he knew that would only stretch him thinner and thinner until he finally snapped and then he _did_ snap and—

He stumbled again. Well, what do you know, turned out his shoes were untied. Motherfucker.

In the quietness of that blue dawn he thought he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears; it tapped out several seconds before at last he knelt down. Teeth clamped tight over his chapped lower lip, the young man took one shoelace and then forced the fingers of _that hand_ to curl around the other. They tingled numbly, half from the chill and half from damaged nerves. But that was fine. He remembered, he knew how to do it. Easy: cross, over, tuck under—

The shoelace slipped through unresponsive fingers and he barked out a curse. He knew how to do it, he’d _practiced_ for fuck’s sake! He bit down on his tongue and tried again, and again, until finally he managed to tear the laces into messy knots yet he knew that it had still taken so much longer than necessary. Maybe because it was so freaking cold he didn't have as much sensation in that hand as he ought to, or maybe because his head was really starting to hurt now, and his vision swam so he felt ready to collapse right there in the middle of the street, and his throat clicked with each dry swallow as if he were coming down with a cold or about to cry…

And of course, the world had to have the last laugh when he lifted his head to realize he was standing in front of a music store.

A beautiful brown piano behind the window.

Of fucking course.

His breath rasped and threatened to come too fast. Slowly, deliberately, he clenched both hands into tremulous fists and tried to focus on them through the roar of blood in his ears. However, the fingers on the right could manage only a stiff, half-open grip — and that, along with the piece of brick he spotted against the wall of the old building upon averting his eyes, made something in his chest splinter like ice.

Too fast for his brain to even process the actions, the young man lurched forward, seized the brick in his good hand, and hurled it at the window, the piano, and the face reflected over the instrument. Glass shattered, rained everywhere with a wind-chime tinkle. The broken brick smashed against ivory keys with a sound of vicious dissonance and an alarm shrilled, but the young man barely heard either of them because he’d already fled. Running: running for his life, running with nothing but the blue morning, and his own harsh gasps streaked silver behind him, to give chase.

* * *

The first among the three to awake was Jimin. Dawn streamed through the gap in the curtains to brush warm against his face until he roused. Toned legs were thrown over the side of the bookshelf whilst the rest of him twisted sideways to rest across the top in a manner that couldn’t be anything but uncomfortable. Yet he awoke with no sign of soreness, as though used to sleeping in cramped, awkward places, and many long minutes passed where he blinked languidly at the water-stained corner of the ceiling. Then he stretched in that fluid, lazy way cats do and slid off the bookshelf. With a groan, he tumbled in a quiet heap onto the floor, steering clear of the shining white beast nearby. He rolled, sprawled out by the bathroom door so that he almost brushed against Jungkook upon a second stretch session.

 _Jungkook_. Jimin sat upright. He scooted closer and stared down at the boy’s unconscious face. Jungkook had bunched up his covers in his sleep and now lay cuddling them, mouth agape as he snored softly. He’d rolled towards Jimin, too, so the older boy had a crystal clear view of him drooling onto the pillow. Jimin snickered, wishing he had a phone in order to snap a picture right then. Then, a bit more hesitantly, he stretched out to dab at Jungkook’s chin with his sleeve.

Jungkook grunted and smacked his lips, then burrowed deeper into the blankets with a sigh. A fond smile flashed across Jimin’s face — although it vanished quickly when he looked down to see a dark wet spot on the cuff of his sweater sleeve.

Okay, gross. That was dumb of him.

While Jungkook slumbered on — and after a glance confirmed that _he_ was also still fast asleep — Jimin decided to dig through the kid’s cobwebbed cupboards, trying to sniff out something good. He let out a hushed laugh at the cups upon unopened cups of instant ramyeon, all original flavor, then made sure to check the expiration date on the soybean paste (it still had a few more months to go). But some definitely-expired milk in the mini-fridge was thrown out, together with the tower of empty noodle cups, which Jimin needed to smash down so he could actually tie the trash bag and heft it outside. Silent bare feet evaded textbooks, strewn laundry, and the two snoozing figures along the way.

(The dawn promised lots of sunshine later in the day, Jimin could smell it. He paused in the doorway to tilt his head back and close his eyes, letting the sunbeams caress his cheekbones like a friend.)

After completing those chores, Jimin looked around for fresh bags, found none, and wandered into the bathroom. To his disappointment it turned out pretty basic: mint tiles, peeled plaster, a sink crammed between the toilet and shower. The cabinet beneath revealed a mountain of toilet paper and paranoia. The shapeshifter gazed at his smudgy reflection in the mirror before reaching out to turn on the faucet.

Wow. Hot water.

Hope surged up in a deep-down place within him ( _Couldn't I ask to stay? Wouldn't he say yes?_ ) but he shoved it down again by means of scalding water to his face.

With rough, chubby fingers Jimin scrubbed his face and neck clean, and patted himself dry using a towel hung on the rack. Then he turned the faucet off and looked at the mirror once more, this time with gold-green eyes narrowed. Jimin licked chapped lips, peered down to consider the state of his gray sweater, and scrutinized his hair, which was brown as tortoiseshell fur and twiggy with grime.

The mirror reflected a sad little smile and Jimin returned to the other room.

Jungkook made a soft noise while the shapeshifter padded around him, earning a quiet smile from Jimin as he hopped back on top of the bookshelf, ignoring its indignant creaks. The unicorn flicked one ear and sighed, but didn’t wake either. His breath stirred Jungkook’s messy bedhead.

Jimin smiled and glanced down at his hands. _Lucky_ _kid._

Thus unnoticed by either, Jimin was free to gaze upon his new companions. To let his thoughts billow across his mind, like ink in water. Small fingers played with the stray threads on his sleeve and he stared, pupils drawn black and thin. The air quivered around the unicorn as it would a crystal prism and Jimin could taste the heat of magic on his tongue. It permeated the room, bleeding from that spiraled horn and his own slumped figure and Jungkook’s hands, slack and long-fingered on the pillow. Overwhelming and absinthian. Bitter.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t chafe him raw.

His heels swung and hit the framed photographs on the bottom shelf, eliciting a faint clatter, but otherwise a heavy silence lay over the room that the mythical boy didn’t break.

* * *

Jungkook’s heart was thudding anxiously as he stirred awake. Sunlight searing red through his eyelids lifted him out of an unsettling dream: one about painted voices, and peat-black claws, and a rapturous glow as constant as the moon. His brow furrowed and a groan rumbled forth from his chest. He flung an arm over his face in an attempt to ward away the brightness and the leftover fear from his dream. But that didn’t work, whereupon Jungkook huffed in irritation and cracked open his eyes. One hand fumbled into his pocket for his phone which he pulled out to look at the time.

It was dead. Crap. Jungkook groaned again and dropped his phone onto his chest, groping around the floor for his watch instead. He found it, brought it up to his face, and squinted to see the digital numbers.

All traces of sleepiness exploded out of existence and he bolted to his feet.

“ _SHIT, I’m late!_ ” he shrieked loud enough to startle the unicorn awake as well. However, Jungkook paid no attention and launched into the nearby closet as if spring-loaded. He tore out a fresh shirt and jeans which he attempted to pull on while simultaneously shucking off his current outfit. He almost knocked his head against the wall in his haste and the unicorn, with rather good reason, stared at him in bewilderment.

“You okay there, Jungkook-ah?”

The older boy’s voice made him jump and both he and the unicorn turned to see Jimin emerge from the bathroom, toweling off wet hair. As Jungkook stared, Jimin pulled the towel away to shake out his damp fringe and then smiled at the boy with great cheer.

“I hope you don’t mind that I used your shower. You can take one now if you need to. I didn’t use up that much of your hot water. Er, not… _all_ of it, I think.”

But that was the least of Jungkook’s concerns at the moment, especially as his wide eyes fixed on the rest of Jimin. His mouth opened and closed. “Are you… Are you wearing my clothes right now, hyung?”

Jimin looked down (albeit mostly to hide the tiny, elated smile that flitted across his mouth). A baggy white T-shirt and sweatpants had replaced the gray sweater and torn jeans. The older boy raised his head and grinned, nonchalant. “Yep. I also washed my clothes, just hung them up to dry. Oh, by the way, I was wondering: why the heck do you have so many white shirts? There’s literally almost nothing else in your closet which is kinda lame, if you want my opinion.”

“You’re wearing my clothes.” Jungkook kept staring. Jimin’s eyebrows arched upwards. “You’re wearing my clothes, hyung. My _clothes_. We’ve known each other for just one day!”

“I mean, if you prefer I walk around naked—”

“Couldn’t you just do that as a cat?!”

Jimin laughed and leaned against the bathroom door, towel across his shoulders. “No,” he said with a sort of firm smugness, but the smile faded after a moment and he stood there tugging at the T-shirt collar for a long time. When at last Jimin ventured to speak again, it was in a low tone that made him sound uncharacteristically serious as a result.

“I only really have that one outfit. Not exactly the cleanest or best-smelling thing to put on after a bath, you know? If you let me borrow these for a little, I’ll be happy to wash them for you afterwards. It’s the least I can do as thanks.” A smirk appeared. “So I promise your shirt won’t smell like me when you get it back.”

Jungkook threw the pillow at him in annoyance. “Whatever. Just keep your hands off my underwear and we’ll be fine.”

Jimin tensed, arms freezing momentarily where he was about to toss the pillow back. A guilty smile emerged steadily. “About that…” he said. Jungkook’s mouth fell open and a choked, shocked laugh escaped him.

“You took my underwear?!”

“Give me a break — I’ve had those same boxers on for fifty years!”

“Fifty years, my _ass!_ And even if it is true then that’s majorly gross, hyung!”

Jimin threw the pillow at him then, but he was grinning as he did which narrowed his eyes into gold-flecked crescent moons. “What were you even yelling about?” he asked. Jungkook grimaced at Jimin’s (perhaps) unknowing reminder to him about the current situation. He kicked the pillow aside and went back to struggling with his pants.

“I’m late,” he whined. “I’m sooo late. I have class at seven-thirty but it takes me almost half an hour to walk from here, through Hyochang-dong, to Yongsan Station. I take a train from there to Noryangjin and then I gotta walk to the bus stop in front of, um, Dongjak-gu Office so I can get a ride to campus. And the whole thing takes over an hour so I normally wake up around five, but I use my phone’s alarm and it died last night because I forgot to charge it and now it’s fucking _noon_ —”

“Jungkook-ah.” Jimin held up a hand, and the gesture effectively cut through Jungkook’s panicked rambling. “Look, it’s cool. I’m sure that if you give your professors a good excuse, they’d understand if you miss a day or two. And to be frank? I think you kinda have to anyways.” He shot a pointed look in the unicorn’s direction, who returned his gaze evenly and flicked his tail. “You asked for this, remember.”

“Y-Yeah, but…”

“If you want to follow him and help, then you have to make some sacrifices. Time’s one of them.”

Something akin to fright burst over Jungkook’s face. “I know! I _know_ that but you don’t understand, hyung! If I skip class too much, they might get suspicious and then find out that I'm—”

All of a sudden, he stopped. The air seemed to bounce around the empty space left by the unfinished sentence. Jimin blinked and slowly his eyebrows drew together into a concerned frown.

Somehow he got the feeling Jungkook was not referring to his magic at all.

“Find out that you're what?”

Jungkook gulped. He ducked his head and zipped up his jeans with trembling fingers. “Nothing. Nothing,” he said. “Okay, just… Say I _do_ skip. Say I email my professors and tell them I got really sick with, like, monkeypox or something. What do we do then?”

The unicorn spoke up for the first time that morning: “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know… Maybe we could—” Jungkook paused and puffed his cheeks, blowing out in nervousness. “No, I guess at this point, the only thing we can do is try and figure out the clues from that butterfly. Do you remember exactly what it said? Word for word?”

“Yes,” said the unicorn. “‘Outside the open window the morning air is all awash with angels. The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever. River that flows so swiftly to the sea, did you not hear her cry? It's too cold outside for angels to fly. The big city lights are calling out our names tonight.’”

“Once again,” Jimin said wryly, “that is vague as hell.”

Jungkook kicked the shapeshifter’s calf. “It’s all we got, though. Think. The ‘river that flows so swiftly’ — that could be the Han River, couldn’t it, and how it connects to the sea? And it _is_ cold outside right now because of autumn. But the things about the angels… I’m not sure.”

“We also have to be sure it’s talking about Seoul, otherwise this whole thing will end up a wild goose chase,” added Jimin to the unicorn as he aimed a counter-kick at the back of Jungkook’s knee. “Were there any other clues from the butterfly where you should go? It’d be super helpful.”

The unicorn thought for only a moment. “When I asked her which way my people had gone, she sang a strange little song. ‘Arirang, arirang, arariyo.’”

Jungkook tensed where he had been punching Jimin’s arm, and then he sprang forward with a whoop. His eyes were round and eager and a grin tugged at his lips. “Ariarirang, sseurisseurirang,” he sang before laughing. “I know that song. The whole of Korea knows that song! That’s it, the other unicorns have gotta be here then!”

Jimin was clearly trying not to grin along just yet. “But in Seoul?” he pressed. “You’re sure this is the city we’ll find them?”

“Oppa is Gangnam-style.”

For a whole minute, no one said a word.

Something about the fact that the unicorn — the world’s purest, most mystical and painfully beautiful creature — had just quoted Psy of all things completely rendered the two boys speechless. Jungkook gaped. Jimin guffawed and clapped a hand over his mouth. The unicorn tilted his head, ears pricking forward.

“Does that mean anything?”

Jimin physically slumped against the wall, he was laughing so hard. He jabbed a finger at the unicorn and tried to speak, only to fall apart with giggles instead. “Yes,” he gasped, teary-eyed. He beamed wide. “I-It means you’re in the right place after all, yes, definitely. Oh my gosh I can’t believe he— I literally can’t _breathe_ —”

“I think,” Jungkook said, rubbing his face, “I’m going back to bed.”

The unicorn nickered at them both in confusion, and Jimin laughed harder.

* * *

“ _Police this morning were called in to investigate the vandalism of the museum most recently opened in the neighborhood of Hyochang-dong, as well as two homicides whose identities have yet to be disclosed. The authorities were notified when the morning custodian clocked in only to discover the exhibits ruined and the bodies in the main gallery. Due to the lack of surveillance cameras, no footage of the perpetrators is available and they may still be at large. The museum’s employees are currently being detained for questioning, but the low list of suspects has police highly concerned although they reassure that the investigation will continue…_ ”

“Turn that off, will you?” spoke up a low voice from behind the young man. He startled and turned to see his roommate shuffle into the kitchen with bleary eyes. Sleep had turned his brown hair into a bird’s nest. “It's too early to be hearing about sad shit like that. I don't need a reminder right now that humans fuck themselves over every day. What I _need_ …” He scratched his stomach and heaved an exhausted sigh. “…is breakfast.”

The young man offered him a sympathetic smile and his long fingers slid across the mousepad to change the channel. Noon shone through the window to light up the apartment, diced by the blinds into strips across beige carpet, gilding the edges of the man’s dyed-orange hair. He sprawled stomach-down on the floor in front of his laptop, where his sweatshirt rode up to tease at the lines of sharp hipbones. The live news stream switched to a YouTube playlist of EDM videos, though not before a trailer blared about a drama series premiering that night; the roommate grunted at its overly-upbeat theme song.

“Better?” asked the first man.

“A little.” His roommate began to stumble through the cupboards. “We got any non-instant coffee left?”

“Yep. To your left and second shelf.”

“Thanks.” Granted, it took him another minute to actually dig out what he was looking for since he kept blundering into the shelves like an uncoordinated llama, grabbing decisively non-coffee items in his half-sleep. The laptop pounded out an synthesized melody while the man almost upended several boxes of miscellaneous drink powders when he finally found and withdrew the near-emptied bag. Amusedly, the first young man watched his roommate dump grounds into the coffee maker and then hit the button for it to brew. The machine gave a bubbled hiss which seemed to wake the roommate at last, and he exhaled and leaned against the counter.

“Is hyung back yet?” he asked beneath a poorly concealed yawn. The other boy brightened like a sunrise and nodded, lips curling up in a toothy grin.

“He got back at like six-thirty this morning. I was getting ready to go to the studio, but he looked really exhausted so I just said hi and then let him head off to sleep.” He drummed his fingertips over the keyboard, humming along to the song. “A double shift, though. That's sure something. We ought to celebrate this, huh?”

“Mmm, yeah. M’glad for him.” The roommate eyed the coffee maker for a while, then blinked and squinted up at the boy. “Wait. Why are you already back?”

“Ah, studio’s closed,” said the young man with a sheepish note. “Jisoo-noona sent out a last-minute email to everyone this morning saying that it’s not going to be open for a few days. Her aunt got sick, so she had to close up and go home so…yeah.” He grinned. “But hey, I bought you guys some jjajangmyeon on the way back! You should eat it while it's still hot.”

“Ahh, thanks, man,” his roommate said with a smile and an appreciative look at the bag of white to-go boxes on the counter. He opened one to inhale the steam that billowed off the noodles; the tiny kitchen soon filled with the aroma of pork and black soybean paste. “ _Wow_ , that smells good. You gonna have one, too?”

“Nope, obviously I bought one just for our cat— Oh, wait. That joke doesn't really work when hyung lives with us, huh?”

A deep laugh erupted from the kitchen which the young man soon joined in, though both of them quickly smothered their snickers when an aggravated _thump_ sounded from the bedrooms. The two men exchanged smirks (one buoyant, one bone-tired but lighthearted for now) and then the laptop was abandoned in favor of the second to-go box.

“So I was thinking,” began the roommate after he’d made quick work of all the seasoned pork in his portion.

“Mmm?” The other man slurped up a chopstickful of noodles, angling an expression of keen interest at his roommate. Said roommate suddenly appeared nervous and got up to fumble around for a mug, pouring himself bitter-black coffee.

“I got an idea last night while I was working on the latest song,” he floundered to explain. “No, actually, it’s more like… Okay, so I’m messing around with some parts in the chorus, right? Just to see if it might work better if the beat goes like _this_ instead of _this_. You know. Anyways, I end up really liking how the melody turns out and I save it as an entirely separate file. But the problem is, I don't have any idea what I would want to write for another song, or at least nothing where the writing process will come easy… Hm, well. Easy- _er_. But then it occurs to me.”

He gestured eagerly and almost poured coffee across the floor, having forgotten he still held the mug at all. “What if I do precisely that: write a song that lacks meaning? As in a song that doesn't _have_ to mean anything in particular — just be rap in its purest form. A five-hundred-percent auditory experience.”

The young man raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “That does sound pretty cool.”

“Good! So if I just figure out what kind of tone I want to go for, exactly what type of ‘auditory experience’ it should be…” Even as he lifted his mug to take a sip, he continued to mutter aloud into the coffee and then huffed. He said, “Well, nonetheless, it’s not like I can start working on it right away. The rest of the mixtape hasn’t gone all that great so I have to focus on that first. Not to mention the, er, issue that came up last night.”

The boy perked up at once. “Oh? What happened?”

His roommate cringed and gave him a look that clearly begged for sympathy. “I…may or may not have fallen asleep at my desk again. Which, incidentally, had a cup of water that…I may or may not have knocked onto one of the speakers.”

“Oh, you _didn’t_ _!_ ”

“I’m sorry! It was an accident, I swear!”

“That’s the third time this month!” He threw his hands up in surrender and looked at his roommate pleadingly. “Please tell me it somehow survived this round as well. Please.”

“Uh…”

The roommate looked as terrified and ashamed as if he were confessing he’d accidentally killed someone. The young man groaned and covered his face with his hands. He mumbled into his fingers, “You are so fucking dead. Hyung is going to murder you, cook rice porridge with your remains, and then force-feed me your clumsy-ass face.”

“Thanks for that mental image. Look, I just— I brought it home with me, okay? I’ll figure out something to convince hyung to fix it when he wakes up. Fuck, I’ll buy him a month’s worth of coffee if that means getting on his good side.”

“Don’t buy from that corner shop again, though. That's where you got that last expresso for him and he took like three sips before dumping the entire thing,” said the other. He paused then, head tilted with an expression of narrow-eyed thoughtfulness. “You know, there’s this café over in Yongmun-dong that I heard is pretty good. If you want, you can go get him stuff from there later.”

His roommate made a face. “That’s too far away.”

“Just twenty minutes if we take the bus. And I’ll come with you! You know that Wonsik lives over there? I haven’t hung out with him in forever and I think I’m way overdue for a visit. Not to mention that it’ll be good for you, too, Joon-ah!” he added beseechingly. “Pleeeease, come outside and soak up some good ol' vitamin D. You can’t live out the rest of your life in the studio!”

“Fucking watch me,” his roommate muttered. But he caved when the young man pulled the “cute” card out on him: cupping his hands under his chin in a “V”-shape and batting long lashes with an imploring chirp. The rapper grimaced. “Okay, _okay_ , I’ll go to Yongmun. Now please stop making kissy faces at me.”

The other boy stopped pursing his lips and beamed. “I make no promises. Wait till you order their caramel latte, my sister told me it’s to die for!”

Another irritable _thump_ emitted from the bedrooms at the loud, excitable sound of his voice. He winced and looked at the wall with an apologetic look, although it disappeared as soon as he’d turned back towards his roommate. Eagerly he whispered, “So I thought you might also get one for hyung. And maybe we can buy a pastry for him there, like an eclair or some chestnut cookies. He likes those, right?" A beat. "To tell you the truth… I also want to do this because he’s been putting so much effort into this job lately, I feel we need to reward him somehow. Like I said, we should celebrate. I mean, yeah, he’s been late a couple times and he’s still a major pain in the ass to wake up, but still. I think he’s really trying this time around.”

His roommate nodded. The movement made his mussed hair fall over his forehead in a clump. “I came home and saw him sitting at the table a couple nights ago,” he remarked in a low voice. “He was exercising his hand, you know? He kept squeezing the rubber ball the doctor gave him even while we talked. And that was just about music and recent news and what we needed to add onto the grocery list. He’s always ranted to me and you about how he just couldn't do it in the past but I think it’s been months since he last said anything like that. It's a good sign.”

“Exactly! So I just— I want him to know that we’re super proud. Well, I know he _knows_ … But hyung needs to be reminded every now and then that we appreciate him and how hard he’s trying.” The young man hummed and shoveled the rest of his jjajangmyeon into his mouth. He hopped up and tossed the box and wood chopsticks into the trash. “Yongmun-dong it is, then?”

A long-suffering sigh responded. His roommate took his sweet-ass time sipping at earthy black coffee, then put it down to reveal a slight but sincere smile.

“Yongmun-dong it is.”

* * *

Despite its silly name, the café “Sweetie Baby” possessed a cozy, open atmosphere that reviewers accredited to its glass windows, classy decor, and warm palette of toffee-browns and tans. Its menu was not bad, either, as was denoted by the long line that led from the counter all the way out the doors. The pop music playing over the speakers could barely be heard over the chatter from the tables and the bustle within the kitchen. Roasted coffee beans filled the air with a pungent scent; it mingled deliciously with the sweet, doughy aromas that wafted out each time an oven was opened for freshly baked pastries.

All of that was lost on Jungkook. The incident in the Gallery was all over the news, much to his dismay, and as he sat waiting in the booth he scrolled through the articles on his phone with his lips mashed together in worry. Jimin had been very nonchalant about the whole thing ( _“Eun-seo couldn’t have installed cameras without people finding out what her exhibits were really about from the footage. We’ll be_ fine _, Jungkook-ah.”_ ) but he simply didn’t understand. How could he? Jungkook’s head spun with the possibilities of fingerprints and witnesses. The front desk receptionist had seen his face! She would almost certainly be brought in for questioning, and might even remember that he was among the people who came in latest.

Cold sweat broke out across his neck and he began to panic. She wasn’t there when he and Jimin and the unicorn escaped, but that meant she never saw him leave, either. What if she ratted him out to the police, told them exactly that? He’d be as good as dead if that happened — if they came knocking at his door and discovered the unicorn in his apartment. Or hell, maybe it wouldn’t even come to that. Maybe they’d discover something trying to find him in the first place: some tiny flaw in his paperwork that would snatch their attention, which would then lead to deeper investigation only to unearth an increasing number of holes until one fatal mistake gave him away and they would realize that he—

“Good afternoon, may I take your order?”

Jungkook almost threw his phone into his face. He fumbled to right himself and lifted wide eyes to a very, very pretty girl standing by the booth. She looked down at him with a pleasant smile, and to Jungkook’s horror, he felt his entire neck flush pink. It didn’t help at all that she had this adorable bobbed haircut, a heart-shaped face, pretty lips and _really nice legs_ with an actual thigh gap and by everything that was good and holy Jungkook thought he was going to _die_.

“Ah,” he squeaked and frantically rifled through his head to recall what Jimin had requested. “I-I’d like a caramel latte and… Actually, never mind, just one iced macchiato, please, um…n-noona.”

She smiled and Jungkook felt his soul ascend into the next plane of reality. “All right, awesome! There will be a bit of a delay since we’ve got a lot of customers at the moment, I hope you don’t mind. Can I get you anything else while you wait?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said at an even higher octave. His heart stuttered to a halt in his chest when the waitress giggled. Her cherry-red lips were quirked into a knowing smile.

“Great! Let me know if you change your mind.” She winked and then breezed away, leaving Jungkook frozen in his seat. A bell rang as two men entered, one in a tank top and beanie, one with a hoodie and mango-colored hair, but he didn't so much as twitch. Only after blinking thrice did Jungkook let out a long, quiet whine and drop his burning face into his hands. How did girls _do_ that?

Jungkook would’ve been fine with a brunch of more instant noodles, and he figured the unicorn wouldn’t mind either, but Jimin had absolutely refused. “You’re going to kill yourself living on so much MSG, Jungkook-ah,” he scolded. Jimin might have been at least three fingers shorter than Jungkook, but that didn’t stop him from jumping the boy when he tried to protest. “How much money do you have, huh? Empty your pockets, let hyung see!”

So the two of them had rummaged through their pants and pooled together their finds. Jungkook had a crumpled ten-thousand-won bill in his wallet, with an additional three thousand won’s worth of loose change and stray bills the unicorn had nosed from his dirty laundry. Jimin contributed fistfuls of coins that amounted to a little over two thousand won. Altogether, it was more than enough to buy cheap kimbap for the three of them and Jimin had whooped.

“We’re eating good today!” he had crowed, pouncing onto Jungkook’s back. The boy fell over with a pained  _oof_. “Yah, those bulgogi burgers at the store’s only twenty-three hundred won each, right? Let’s get some of those for dinner, Jungkook-ah.”

“I’d have to get a vegetarian one for him,” he said with a glimpse at the unicorn after catching his breath. “But yeah, bulgogi burgers should be fine for our budget.”

If Jimin had smiled any brighter, Jungkook would have gone blind. “If there’s any money left afterwards, do you think you’d mind buying coffee?” he asked, shaking the younger boy’s wrist. “Not a lot — even a small cup will be okay! I really like macchiato, but if you prefer something else, and if you don’t mind sharing, you can just get whatever!”

Which was how Jungkook had wound up in Sweetie Baby. The boys had split the money and shopping duties, the unicorn left behind with reassurances about the boys’ speedy return. Hence Jungkook held a plastic bag of packaged kimbap and about five thousand won left over. Definitely not enough for both Jimin’s iced macchiato and his preferred caramel latte… But something about the shapeshifter’s hopeful face spurred him to give in this once.

Jungkook frowned. There was something not quite right about Jimin. He seemed cheerful enough, but there was an aspect to his bright mien that somehow seemed aimed at Jungkook in particular, as if appreciative. _Grateful_. Jungkook played idly with the band of his watch as he recalled the older boy’s gray sweater. The threadbare hem, the frayed sleeves long enough to cover callused hands. Those dark jeans with holes Jungkook had presumed was the intended design, but now suspected otherwise. Dirty hair, dirty clothes, dirty shoes. Just one outfit.

Jungkook’s eyes widened.

Was Jimin—

A scream broke into his thoughts.

Along with several other customers he jumped and whipped around. It was that pretty noona who had cried out and her expression seemed on the verge of tears. Understandably, too, considering that the front of her blouse now seeped brown and the hem of her skirt dripped with splattered coffee. A plastic cup rolled across the floor as a man stood up, appearing three times her size and positively irate.

“You’ve messed up my order twice now! Twice! If you can’t even get done a task as simple as giving me my coffee, then what good are you?!”

The girl looked caught between fright and anger. Her shoulders shook. “I already told you, sir,” she spoke with a visible effort to remain polite. “We’re terribly busy at this hour. I’m sorry, but I did apologize to you that first time and even agreed to give it to you for free. You didn’t have to _throw it at me_.”

“Fucking useless,” fumed the man like he hadn’t even heard her. Indignant anger sparked below Jungkook’s ribs. “Why even work as a barista when you’re obviously no good at it? Kids these days are lazy as hell. They complain all the time that they don’t want to go to school and then head out into the world to become screw-ups like this. How about you get a real fucking job, huh, kid? Do something that’s actually worthwhile with your life.”

Jungkook watched horrified as the girl’s face turned bright red and she clutched at her hands. She was trying not to cry, he realized, and he couldn’t lie and say the man’s words didn’t cut him deep as well. Around them, customers murmured but didn’t intervene or speak up. Movement flickered in the corner of his eye: probably one of the employees going to get the manager.

His heart leaped up to his mouth. He knew how these things went. The girl would be the one blamed, because the customer was always right and regardless of the café’s traffic she still made mistakes with the man’s order two times too many, which nobody could turn a blind eye to. Worst case scenario, she’d be fired on the spot.

But what the hell, he didn’t need to throw his drink at her.

Jungkook jumped to his feet then, propelled by the emotion that rushed from the crown of his head down to his toes. He intended to point out the man's ill manners. To say or do anything in the girl’s defense that could potentially lessen whatever punishment she'd receive. But the chance never came — because at the exact moment he stood, his hands burst with an abrupt blaze of heat that pooled in his fingertips like magma and seized up the breath in his lungs. Jungkook's eyes widened, smoldering like nebulas.

And a cup on a nearby table launched off and shot straight for the man’s face.

Lukewarm tea doused the entire side of his head in a splash of fragrant chamomile. A collective gasp rose from those watching, punctuated by the shatter of flower-patterned ceramic against the floor. With excruciating slowness, the man turned to face Jungkook who stared at his expression of blackest fury with round frightened eyes.

His hands had gone cold once more.

“T-That wasn’t me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally meet the Rap Line next chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, I actually have been startled so badly that I flung my phone into my face. Also, my roommate works in a café and told me she's had a customer throw a pastry at her because they weren't satisfied with what they got. Please don't be this rude.


	6. Spine Breaker

****Sometimes when he slept, the smell of the hospital room came back to him far too vividly to be a mere dream. Jungkook recalled staring out the window at bleak trees, a lonely dirt road beyond them. White paint tainted the walls, and the whole place smelled of strong antisepsis. Disinfectant burned holes into Jungkook’s lungs until he thought he might suffocate and had to lay his head down on the bed. The sheets rumpled under his temple, cool and patched wherever they had frayed. Jungkook heard each thin breath he took as a far-off gasp, as if he were listening to someone at the bottom of a well. He imagined his lungs into weak, wheezing bellows. Each pump a pathetic attempt to inflate his crumpled heart.

Everything hurt.

“Jungkook-ah.”

A hand on his forehead. The voice above him sounded as wrinkled and gentle as the cool fingers that brushed his fringe aside. The throb in his chest grew; one hand fisted and he buried his face into the hospital sheets. The mattress was too lumpy to be comfortable.

“Jungkook-ah.” This time the old voice sighed, and it was a sound that rustled like paper. The hand didn’t stop stroking his hair despite fingers bent from arthritis. “You’re not breathing right, grandson.”

He tried to speak but instead choked on his words so that they never reached the surface. Jungkook sniffled and raised his head. His eyes were damp and raw, red around the edges. The old man smiled with a broad, benevolent Buddha’s-face and reached down for the boy’s wrist.

“You must remember, Jungkook-ah,” the old man said, “how to steady your breathing, and thus your heart and soul. It may help to think of a pool of water.” He took Jungkook’s hand in his; the boy covered his face, inhaling and exhaling in harsh reedy gasps, and began to cry. “Each breath you take in, and each one you let out, will spread ripples across the water. If you puff and panic, you’ll only cause a storm, so to keep it perfectly still you must breathe slow. Calm.”

Thus, Jungkook now attempted to do exactly that. While the angry customer shouted over the manager’s words of pacification, Jungkook envisioned a body of dark water. He closed his eyes and tried to steady his hands, slow his breathing — _Inhale for four seconds, exhale for five_ — and soon the ripples began to quiet. Again, and again, to a point where the pool of water had settled enough that Jungkook could almost see his reflection on top. He gazed into the inky depths, imagined running cold hands over the surface. The water smoothed into a mirror and he inhaled, exhaled, inhaled…

“This was a fucking rare-edition shirt I spent months looking for! That little shit owes me four-hundred fifty thousand won, and I’m not leaving until I get every coin!”

The pool broke. Jungkook winced and cracked open his eyes to see the man death-glare at him, graphic tee soaked through with chamomile. Fear and shame flooded over his brain and Jungkook dropped his gaze to the brown-tile floor. He could feel the eyes of all the café’s customers pressing into his skin, wordless and accusatory. One of the employees cleaned up the mess of tea and broken ceramic.

“Sir, please calm down,” said the manager in the cool soothing tone of a peacemaker. “I assure you we can settle this in a much more civil manner than throwing drinks at one another.”

“I didn’t throw anything at him,” Jungkook mumbled. But nobody heard. The barista noona stood off to one side, face pale and frightened, fingers twisting in her lap. Jungkook shifted his weight from foot to foot and wondered if jumping out the window would serve as a decent escape route.

“No, I want him to pay me!” The man jabbed a finger at Jungkook as he yelled. The boy froze in place, mouth drying up. “I don’t care if he’s up to his neck in debt, that government-dependent waste of space is going to _give me my money_ and only then will I walk out of this damn place!”

 _Four-hundred fifty thousand won_. Jungkook didn’t even have enough money to buy breakfast tomorrow. Hell, he didn’t have enough for two measly cups of coffee let alone an overrated piece of clothing. If only — and the thought almost made him burst into hysterical giggles — ha, if only he could _magic_ up some cash right then and there. Wouldn’t that solve his current problems and shut that guy up too? All it’d take was one wave of his hand and poof, there’s your money, asshole, now get the fuck out of my life.

And the worst part was: he’d had it. For no more than half a second Jungkook had _had_ it.

Even now he could feel the supernova that had exploded across his hands, that poured heat into every inch of his skin until his heart seemed on the verge of catching fire. His fingernails, his eyes, the iron in his blood purged by a fever of ecstasy. The _taste_ — spice and copper and flower-nectar on his lips. Like he had swallowed magma and found it sweet.

Then it vanished as fast as it had appeared, leaving him emptied and reeling with the urge to collapse.

(To chase it to the ends of the earth, right into the face of the blistering sun; Jungkook knew he could follow it _anywhere_.)

Right then the sound of leather slapped against skin jolted him out of his thoughts. He blinked wide uncomprehending eyes and a deep, irritated voice said, “Take it then.”

Everyone in the café sucked in a collective gasp. Tense silence descended as the man stared at the wallet in his hand, then up at the young man beside him. Tea soaked his shirt and hair, his face bright red from shouting, and Jungkook had to admit the man looked almost funny as he squawked, “What?”

Dark monolid eyes rolled. The young man folded his arms ( _wow, those were some_ triceps) and leveled the customer with a tight expression. He snapped, “Take your money and get the hell out of here. Leave those kids alone.”

Jungkook guffawed, more out of shock than real humor. Behind his unexpected savior, a boy with orange hair caught his eye and grinned. At once Jungkook flushed and flicked his eyes aside in abrupt embarrassment. He was to blame for part of the situation, after all; he had no business laughing right now. He refocused on the first man, noting that the dude wore a beanie, sweatpants, and a black tank top emblazoned with a microphone and, _KEEP CALM AND RAP ON_. The low voice with which he spoke didn’t quite fit his face: almost round, with prominent cheekbones and full lips. Although, Jungkook mused then, the stranger looked much less like a rice cake with that pissy expression on. He stood eye-to-eye with The Asshole, who sputtered in indignant anger for a moment.

“This wallet can’t be any thicker than your dick, you fucker! Stay out of this!”

“No,” replied the young man, much calmer than his face suggested he’d like to be. Jungkook didn’t know whether to be intimidated or awed. “You’re disturbing a peaceful afternoon and attacking a couple of students for no reason. Aren’t you supposed to be the adult between them? So then _act_ like it. There’s about two-hundred thousand won in my wallet, and I vote you take it and leave.”

The manager cut in before The Asshole could retaliate, voice resonant and resolute. Her hands waved as she smoothed down the ruffled tensions. The rest of the café exchanged bemused looks, but Jungkook paid no mind as they returned to their coffee mugs. Instead he stared at the man in the beanie, eyes huge and a bit hesitant. This man — this thug-like hyung who seemed capable of snapping Jungkook in half if he so wished — had just relinquished two-hundred thousand won for him. For a total stranger. That was no small amount and gratitude rose in his chest but not without bafflement as well.

Another second, and worry joined them both. If the man expected Jungkook to pay him back…

“Hey, are you okay? You don’t look so great.”

Jungkook didn’t respond at first, assuming that the question was to the barista noona. But then he glanced over to meet the concerned eyes of the mango-haired boy and almost jumped out of his skin.

“Ah— Y-Yeah…! I’m good, thanks,” he said and put on a nervous smile. Then his eyes went back to the beanie guy, who was fuming to himself, and Jungkook dropped his smile to gulp.

“Um… Listen. Thanks for the help, seriously, but your friend didn’t have to…”

But apparently Beanie Guy overheard because he turned, and his face softened into such friendliness that it did resemble a rice cake after all. Jungkook blushed.

“What, the wallet?” Beanie Guy said with gentle cheer. “Don’t even worry about it. I took out my driver’s license and stuff before I handed it over. Heck, tell you the truth, I would’ve sold my left kidney to get that guy to shut up. Nobody needs to hear that kind of crap, least of all some kids struggling to survive in the world.” His eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice by an octave. “Honestly… What kind of self-entitled moron lectures on contributing to society when he’s the one spending his money on expensive T-shirts? A fucking T-shirt. At least make it a rare album or something, you’re less likely to carry that around and get tea spilled all over it.”

“Speaking of which! Good on you for standing up for that girl, kid. That was a brave thing to do,” Mango Hair piped up. He nudged Jungkook with a bony elbow and flashed him a huge heart-shaped grin when the boy looked at him, startled. Jungkook nibbled his lower lip; Mango Hair looked pleased if not downright approving.

“I didn’t throw the tea,” Jungkook said almost as a reflex. Mango Hair’s grin melted into a smirk and he shrugged one shoulder. His hoodie was loose and low enough that Jungkook could see sharp collarbones underneath. Seriously, these two had to be gym buddies or something.

“Okay, okay, you didn’t.”

“I would’ve thrown coffee,” said Beanie Guy in a matter-of-fact note. He shot a dirty look towards The Asshole, who had stormed out the door much to the café’s immense relief. “Tea was a great spur-of-the-moment substitute but I’d have given him a taste of his own medicine. Like, did you see the side of the coffee cup he threw? There were a shit ton of notes like ‘three extra shots of Irish cream syrup’ and ‘no whipped cream’ and ‘half steamed milk’ and who knows what else. No wonder the order got screwed over.”

“Oh,” Jungkook said. “Wow.”

Beanie Guy sighed, then turned towards him with a half-smile. His cheeks dimpled when he did, Jungkook noticed. It was rather endearing, not that he'd ever admit that aloud. “I’m Namjoon, by the way,” the young man said, holding out a hand. “And look, the wallet’s no big deal, okay? I’m more than happy to help.”

“Thanks, though, really. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” Jungkook shook the proffered hand as a tiny smile emerged across his face. “It’s nice to meet you, Namjoon-ssi.”

To his surprise, Mango Hair laughed out loud while Namjoon snorted. “Aw, man, you make me sound like an ‘84-liner when you call me that,” Namjoon said, sheepish. “You’re my dongsaeng, right? Just call me hyung.”

Jungkook’s stomach did a somersault and he averted his eyes. “Hyung… Namjoon-hyung, then,” he murmured. Namjoon, clearly thinking that Jungkook felt shy, took a step back so his friend was visible and Jungkook could have a little more room.

“This is my roommate, Hoseok. If at any point he gets overexcited and starts shouting, I apologize in advance. He, ah, tends to do that."

“Wow, first of all, rude.” Hoseok shoved at Namjoon with his shoulder but chuckled as he did. He waved at the younger boy and beamed. “Second, the pleasure’s all mine!”

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Jungkook,” said Jungkook. And he smiled.

And then far too late, he realized his mistake.

His breath went backwards and his body locked up as fight-or-flight kicked into full gear. Oh. Oh, shit, _what had he done?_ Namjoon noticed his rigid stance and straightaway his expression went to one of surprise and concern.

“Er… You all right there, kid?”

Despite the older man’s gentle tone, Jungkook’s lips tingled and he had to bite them hard to get the blood flow back. “Yes,” he croaked, and Namjoon frowned and exchanged a glance with Hoseok. Jungkook pretended he didn’t notice.

He gave them his name he gave them his name he gave them _his real name by accident, fuck fuck fuck_ —

“Excuse me.” The three of them turned to see the manager standing nearby. The barista noona was at her side; one by one she looked each of them in the face before lingering on Jungkook last. He fidgeted under the scrutiny, ducking his head.

“While I appreciate how you stood up for my employee,” she said, “I have to ask you not to do an idiotic thing like that again. We could have had a real problem on our hands if that customer decided on a rasher course of action. It’s very fortunate things turned out well. But if another incident happens in the future, and it turns out you were behind it, then I’m afraid we won’t be able to serve you for some time. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Ajumma,” Jungkook replied in a near-whisper. The manager made a noncommittal sound and then turned her attention upon Namjoon. He attempted a bashful grin that didn’t impress her in the least.

“As for you. I can’t say I’m entirely pleased about it, but I am glad you stepped in when you did. You and your friend here can each have a free drink.” Hoseok lit up like a candle and the manager narrowed her eyes. “With purchases.” Hoseok’s face fell again.

“Um,” said the barista noona after the manager stalked away. Though her skirt still bore tan stains, she had put on a fresh shirt, probably a work uniform borrowed from a co-worker. “I wanted to thank both of you for what you did. It was a real nice thing to do.”

“Sure, no problem,” Namjoon said with another dimpled smile. The barista noona blinked, then beamed back with an admiring spark to her eyes. Jungkook felt sick to his stomach. The café seemed to balloon around him, his senses going hyperaware at every sound, every scent, every single person present in the little establishment. A couple pushed past him with drinks in hand, and the impact jostled his bones which refused to stop shaking. He needed to get out. He needed to _get_ _out_.

His phone chose that moment to blow up with a pop tune and he almost yelped.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he apologized to the startled noona and hyungs. Jungkook fumbled for his phone and peeked at the caller ID. Relief washed over him at once and he closed his eyes to send up a silent thank-you. His ass was saved.

“I gotta take this call. Be right back!” he said, already moving towards the door.

“Ah, okay, Jungkook-ah!” Hoseok waved at him from where he and Namjoon were finally putting in their orders. Jungkook tried not to cringe at the use of his name as he slipped outside. The weather was pleasant and sunny, although the air still nipped with autumn cold. Jungkook paused on the street corner, about ten feet away from Sweetie Baby, and stared at the name on his phone screen for a moment longer. Then he accepted the call.

_Beep._

“Hi…! Sorry it took me a little while to pick up. Hey, Gyeomie, how’ve you been?”

Had there been any passerby, they might have heard a cheerful voice on the other line, faint and tinny over the receiver. Yet his laugh remained distinct, and Jungkook couldn’t help but grin himself. His eyes shone and a breeze carded through his hair.

“Nah, not today. Actually, you’re not going to believe this but I’m playing hooky right now. I just finished shopping and now I’m at Sweetie Baby — that café we went to last time, remember? — for some coffee.” He laughed. “Don’t tell the kids, okay?”

A playful _Ooooooh_ sounded in his ear and Jungkook scoffed. But what he heard next made him sober up fast. Silence encompassed as he listened to the caller speak.

“Oh… Come over? No, no, it’s fine, I’m okay with it if you’re not busy right now! It’s just, um…” Jungkook laughed a second time; it came out shaky and uncertain. “Wow. S’a weird story, now that I think about it.”

But he had time to tell it, didn’t he? Jungkook considered the sun in the sky, and a glance at his watch revealed that it was fifteen minutes to one. For sure he could take a train there and get back to Jimin and the unicorn before late. The fact that the older boy had no phone to communicate didn’t seem like it’d be an issue either. After all, Jungkook had told Jimin where he hid the spare apartment key, so it wasn’t like he’d get locked out. Plus he was somewhat certain the two myths could hide for a while without him there. Somewhat.

Jungkook did a few calculations in his head: if he remembered right, then a bus stop nearby could take him to Noksapyeong Station just on time to catch the train en route to Cheonggu. His student pass allowed him to get discounts on the train fares and he always carried it in his wallet, _and_ he had more than five thousand won left over from shopping, which meant…

“Okay, I’ll come over!” Jungkook spoke into the phone, words coming in a single rush of air. He bustled back into Sweetie Baby to grab his bag of kimbap and apologetically cancel his order for the macchiato. _Sorry, Jimin-hyung. Next time, I promise._ “I’ll be there in about forty minutes, faster than you can say ‘samgak-kimbap!’”

Another pause, and Jungkook snickered.

“Oh, ha-ha, very funny. You know what I mean.”

(He pretended not to notice Hoseok waving goodbye from a window-side booth.)

“Yeah, I'll see you then. Later, Yugyeomie!”

_Beep._

* * *

A little after two in the afternoon Yoongi finally stirred awake, and both the music and clawed, scuttling shadows that filled his head withdrew into the bedroom’s stillness. Sunlight filtered through the closed blinds to light the room cozy tan and beige. Dust motes floated lazy circles through the air. The covers tangled Yoongi’s legs into a fleecy cocoon, and for a bleary-eyed minute he played with the idea of never leaving the warmth of the sheets, the bed. His head felt like dead weight on the pillow. His entire body, so _heavy_ , like his blood had become leaden and his flesh turned into one huge shackle.

(But Yoongi knew this inexplicable exhaustion like an old friend, and it ran much deeper than his physical person. The days when fatigue dug into his eyes and numbed him into catatonia testified to that.)

Right on cue, his stomach gurgled and Yoongi groaned. He lolled his head sideways, tried to think up excuses why he would rather stay in bed and not cater to his bodily needs. But then his stomach rumbled again, and his tongue felt swollen and dried-out in his mouth, and his eyes ached such that Yoongi knew they’d appear red and puffy in the mirror like he’d been crying — which he hadn’t, thank you very much.

So after a few more minutes or ages, Yoongi let out a gurgle and forced himself to roll off the mattress. He hit the carpet with a hard, “ _Oof_ ,” pulling the covers along so he landed in a heap of limbs and blanket. Yoongi wriggled, tugged himself free, and then half-crawled, half-stumbled to the door. He grabbed the doorknob and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders before staggering outside.

The apartment was too quiet. Yoongi grunted and meandered over to the adjacent bedroom. But it was empty; up on the monochrome walls, Namjoon’s various hip-hop posters stared at him critically beside framed abstract paintings. When he padded into the main room, it likewise lacked the familiar noisy presence of his roommates. No Hoseok jammed to rap as he cooked omelettes, no Namjoon sat working at his laptop on the couch. The spare blanket and pillow folded neatly on the cushions had remained untouched since yesterday. Faint satisfaction crawled through Yoongi’s ribs at that. Hoseok and Namjoon had lived as a pair together before he moved in, and the bedroom where he most often slept originally belonged to the former. They alternated fine enough: Yoongi worked nights while Hoseok had dance classes during the day so their sleep schedules rarely clashed. Whenever they did happen to overlap, Hoseok seemed content to crawl into the covers beside Yoongi. The older boy would never admit it but it felt nice to sleep by someone as warm-bodied as his best friend.

Still, there would be the odd occasion when Hoseok took the couch. When Yoongi needed space to be alone.

Those occasions had become less frequent as of late, and for that the untouched blanket and pillow were a welcome sight.

Anyways, it wasn’t as if all signs of life had disappeared from the apartment. There were Hoseok’s dance shoes kicked off by the door. There was Namjoon’s laptop charger on the floor. There were two white take-out boxes in the trash. There was a third one on the kitchen counter.

Yoongi blinked and fumbled to open it. He stared for some time at the long-cooled noodles; a blue square of paper stuck to the top of the box. He peeled off the adhesive note and rubbed the sleep from his eyes to read the scrawled message.

 

_Yoongi-hyung,_

_Namjoon-ah and I are going to head out for a little bit! Dance class is canceled for a couple days so he and I are grabbing some coffee and then heading over to Wonsik’s studio. I bought jjajangmyeon and there’s still rice and kimchi left over in the fridge. We’re going to have to buy more groceries either today or tomorrow. If anything comes up, both Namjoon and I have our phones (and chargers). See you later tonight! Don’t drink too much coffee!!_

 

It was unsigned, but even if Yoongi hadn’t recognized the messy handwriting, then the doodled hearts and emoticons were a dead giveaway. He couldn’t resist the quirk to his lips as he stuck the note to the sink and put the noodles in the microwave. As the machine hummed to life, Yoongi sagged against the counter to stretch his wrist idly, eyes cast down at the dip in his forearm.

Amidst the apartment’s afternoon lull, he supposed it was a good thing that his roommates had gone. That left him more time to figure stuff out, such as an explanation why he quit his job. Yoongi smiled to himself, mirthless. Just yesterday Hoseok was grinning and crushing Yoongi in his arms after the older boy announced that he had gotten the double shift for his custodial job. Namjoon, ever the worrier, had at first been concerned about potential health repercussions but Yoongi and Hoseok won him over fast. After all, a double shift required energy. Motivation. Both of which were things Yoongi had been severely lacking since he first left the hospital. This was a good sign.

And to be honest, mere hours ago Yoongi had felt good too. His friends’ support buoyed him, kept him lighter than usual as he clocked in wearing his workplace’s navy-blue uniform. It wasn’t the best job, for either his pride or energy, but Yoongi endured nonetheless. His hand put dextrous jobs like repair or computer work out of the question, and that was unfortunate because Yoongi used to be so good at those. Though restorable, the extent of the injury also placed Yoongi under the temporary label of “person with a disability,” which unfortunately wasn’t something many employers were willing to deal with.

Lo and behold it turned out his latest boss was one such employer. Yoongi bent his wrist upwards to stretch the tendons and scowled. The sole reason he even got the job was because of Hoseok. The dancer had suggested it, saying that the uncle of a studio friend desperately needed a new custodian. Guilt had been eating at Yoongi for weeks about freeloading on his best friends and so he jumped at the opportunity, determined to make himself useful.

Now, Yoongi had had little to no issues upon beginning his new job. His co-worker Zhou Mi was seven years his senior but proved to be very understanding and likeable. The two bonded over shared music tastes and wound up good friends. Trouble arose only when Yoongi needed to do heavy lifting or minor repairs and Zhou Mi wasn’t there to help, which didn’t happen often anyways. For the most part, cleaning rarely called for precise fingers and Yoongi had no problem pushing around a mop or taking out garbage. Accomodations wouldn’t be necessary. So at the interview with his new employer, he didn’t say anything about his hand, and therein lay the problem.

The problem being his boss was a huge fucking douchebag.

The microwave beeped and Yoongi punched it open a bit harder than necessary. Steam crested into his face when he opened the box, black bean sauce bubbling and savory, and Yoongi dug through the drawers for clean chopsticks. His boss, as it turned out, was not pleased that his nephew had “tricked” him into hiring someone with a physical disability. Yoongi had no freaking idea what the guy’s problem was, but things went downhill once his boss found out that, unable to hold a pen himself, Yoongi had needed Namjoon to come help him sign the employment paperwork. That was a one-time thing since Yoongi could scrawl a signature with his non-dominant hand, but he didn’t like the messy look of it on official documents. It was minor. Nothing more than a personal nitpick.

But his boss didn’t approve, and from that point on, the man’s behavior changed towards Yoongi. He started to make comments about Yoongi’s work and appearance that indirectly related to his disability. Once he even overheard the man instructing Zhou Mi to clean a series of rooms that Yoongi was supposed to because “ _you’d do less of a sloppy job of it_.” Yoongi had had half a mind to barge in and tell his boss just where he could stick his broomsticks. Zhou Mi didn’t like it either. He let Yoongi vacuum the rooms and quietly suggested that they report their employer for disability discrimination, and Yoongi would be lying if he claimed he never gave the idea some serious thought.

Plus their boss never even realized Yoongi cleaned the rooms after all. Showed what he knew.

The noodles were hot, and Yoongi sat on the couch as he slurped at them, chopsticks fisted in his non-dominant hand. In the end he didn’t report his boss. Yes, it grated on his nerves whenever the man made snide remarks about the lopsided buttons on his shirt (the one instance he woke up late and had to dress in a hurry) or the state of his unwashed hair (the second instance he woke up late and couldn’t shower in time). But Yoongi bore it in silence. He couldn’t afford to lose this job, not when it was the longest he’d managed to keep one in awhile. Hoseok was beside himself and Namjoon patted his back when they saw each other at night, both proud and encouraging as one, then two, then three months went by. Yoongi didn’t want to disappoint them.

He didn’t want to disappoint himself — to face another future full of bleak _What now_ ’s. He’d had his fill of that.

But then last night he went to collect his paycheck, only to discover that a significant amount had been taken out of it and that had been the final fucking straw.

His employer excused it as fair compensation. For the repair work Yoongi dumped on Zhou Mi, he said all matter-of-fact, so of course he couldn’t pay Yoongi an equal amount when the latter was the only one who actually did his assigned tasks. That had incensed Yoongi even more because Zhou Mi only ever lent him a helping hand, had only ever wanted to help him out. Yoongi could deal with insults, with condescension and general douchebaggery, but he’d be damned before he let his friend get dragged into this.

He said that too, word for word, even the “douchebaggery” bit. Then he shucked his uniform and paycheck into the boss’s face before storming out of the office. Zhou Mi stood by the entrance as Yoongi left, and he had given Yoongi a grin and thumbs-up that made the younger boy feel wild with pride.

Then, ten steps out of the building, the truth of what he’d just done caught up with him and suddenly Yoongi didn’t feel so great anymore.

He grimaced now and stabbed his chopsticks into the black bean noodles. Over the last year-and-a-half he had lost a total of six, now seven jobs. Everything from convenience store cashier, to waiter, to that guy who went around collecting shopping carts for supermarkets. Yoongi either quit or was fired from all of them because of his inability to get his shit together. Because he got frustrated too easily, with others or himself, and because he remembered too much.

Six months ago he tried to work in a music store only to quit within four days. It had been outright _torture_ to be there.

Dammit. He was so pathetic.

Yoongi jabbed at his jjajangmyeon again and closed the box. He shuffled over to the fridge to tuck it above the leftover rice, then into the bathroom to squint at the mirror. His reflection presented a pale face and black hair that stood up every which-way. Dark circles traced the bottoms of his eyes, to say nothing of said eyes’ puffiness and sexy rash-red shade. Called it. Yoongi groaned and slammed the door on his way out. Back in his room, he pulled on a sweatshirt faded gray and fresh jeans; whatever else might appear halfway decent was strewn over the floor.

Yoongi had maybe five, six hours before Namjoon and Hoseok returned. If he put his mind to it, he just might be able to find another job within that time frame. Seoul was a busy place; people were always looking for employment. Sure, that also meant the _un_ employment rate was pretty fucking high but whatever — Yoongi needed to stay positive and shit.

Because if he _really_ put his mind to it, Namjoon and Hoseok would never have to find out what happened.

Yoongi re-entered the bathroom to take one last look at his reflection, where it grimaced at him before he left.

* * *

Jungkook’s watch blinked, _6:23 PM_ as he sat tapping at a piano game on his phone. The scenery outside the window blurred as the train sped along. The curve of his shoulders was relaxed, and under his breath he hummed a repetitive little melody he had written months ago but had no lyrics for. His heart bounced like a metronome within him. Warmth made his whole body tingle. Good food filled his belly with contentment, and children’s voices calling _Hyung, hyung_ still rang in his ears. Moreover, two grocery bags rested in his lap; Yugyeom had sent him home with extra rice and barbeque in spite of Jungkook’s protests.

“Soyeon cooked too much again. Feel free to take as much as you want!” Yugyeom had laughed and pulled Jungkook into a hug. “Remember to take care of yourself, okay? I know how you can be.”

“Okay.” Jungkook wrapped an arm around his friend and squeezed, reveling in the familiarity of his presence. All these years and that had never changed about Yugyeom. He soaked up that reassurance like a sponge, saving it for whatever future awaited him. Then he let go. “Tell Soyeon thanks again for me.”

“I will! Come over sometime soon, Jungkook, we don’t see each other nearly enough.”

“We really don’t.” He had grinned wide. “You’re still not able to beat me at Mario Kart.”

Yugyeom punched his arm and retorted, “That day will arrive soon!” Jungkook just snickered and waved goodbye as he headed down the driveway; he saw Yugyeom’s silhouette remain in the doorway until Jungkook had turned the corner and gone out of sight. His lips quirked now, softer and pensive.

Man. He didn’t deserve a friend like Yugyeom. Jungkook was so lucky.

Jungkook turned off his phone and slouched into his jacket, lulled by the train’s movement. A handful of passengers sat or stood around him, and save for rustling coats and quiet coughs, silence draped over them like smoke. Sleepiness patted at his face. Softened the too-young features into putty. Muscles along his spine loosed and he hadn’t realized they were so tense to begin with. He sighed. Less than an hour. He had less than an hour to recall his doubts and private fears, to hide them within all the secret corners of his being. Less than an hour to face the myth and mystery in his apartment. Less than an hour to remember ineptitude crawled through his fingertips, and to despair, and to _remember_.

But until then, he would let music fill his head, and continue to forget.

Jungkook shifted to curl up in his seat and hummed his eleven-note melody again. Though no more audible than a breath, the song poured along his nerves and thrummed there, warm as magic. It slid his eyes closed and, with the metallic hush of train tracks, rocked him to sleep.

Less than an hour later, Jungkook awoke to the squeal of opening doors whilst a woman’s voice announced, “ _Arrived at: Mapo Train Station_.”

Mapo Station? Oh. Okay. Jungkook lugged his body upright and swallowed the grogginess lining his throat. He trailed after two other passengers as they disembarked the train, who quickly vanished amidst the bustle of the station. Jungkook stood motionless, head tipped towards the colorful signs on the walls. Ah, he slept for too long and missed his stop. At least Mapo Station was the one right after it; he didn’t have far to walk. Splitting his grocery bags between both hands, Jungkook huffed and braced himself to head out of the station. The crisp air streaked his breath silver across his cheeks, nose bright red.

Twenty minutes to walk back home.

Tiredness fizzed like soap bubbles around his brain, and with every step Jungkook felt a little as if he were floating. Streetlights illuminated his path in floods of gray, between which ice-dark shadows flitted and skittered from his feet. He peered down a side street, recognized it, and turned his steps that way. It was neither late nor cold enough that there weren’t still passerby around, but Jungkook knew this area to be quiet regardless. Therefore it didn’t surprise him when he didn’t run into anyone for several minutes, nor when a group of laughing, chattering figures appeared at the other end of the street.

The voices were male and blustering, and because the by-street was somewhat narrow Jungkook stepped up onto the curb so they could pass. He didn’t pay them much mind, for his attention flickered to the shadows that gathered batlike beneath the awnings of small family businesses. From the last of his lethargy some forgotten, primal part of his senses awoke instead, so that he seemed able to hear the shadowy things as they stirred. Whispers and murmurous voices limped across the damp asphalt to touch his skin. Goosebumps stood along Jungkook’s arms and he shivered. Bits of newspaper drifted on the wind, where the evening darkness morphed them into feathers.

Then when he passed the window of a liquor store, something bloomed in the flat black glass. In his peripheral vision it looked like a smeared face, or an eye, or a mouth gaping and ravenous and terror tore through his body. Adrenaline streaked from the crown of his head down to the soles of his feet and within an instant Jungkook was wide, wide awake. He jerked away in panic and found that he could see nothing but the memory of darkness gasping, convulsing, reaching out deformed hands from the crannies of the gallery and he knew beyond knowing that they wanted nothing more than to seize him cut him _hurt him_ —

His shoulder rammed into someone and they erupted a swear. An outraged voice boomed, “Watch where the fuck you’re going!”

Jungkook recoiled as though he’d been burned. The men — there were four of them — bristled and seethed, eyes shiny and glowering. “Sorry,” he rasped, stepping aside. There was nothing in the display window’s blackness except alcohol bottles; the whispers from the shadows came from dried leaves conversing on the wind. Yet Jungkook _knew_ something was there. It crept along the places he couldn’t see, watching with a dripping, palpable gaze. It tasted on the autumn air the bitter heat roiling within his marrow and longed to crack his bones open to get at it. Jungkook trembled violently, like the weight on his heart was a jackhammer, and couldn’t make himself stop.

He took a step to continue down the street. But then, something snatched his elbow and yanked him back. Jungkook had time to shout before he was spun around.

Harsh hands slammed him into the side of a restaurant and he cried out when his back knocked painfully against the wall. His grocery bags spilled over the dirty ground. A fist grabbed the collar of his shirt, and Jungkook choked on the bony knuckles shoving into his esophagus before lashing out. Like a madman he thrashed kicks and punches, aiming wherever he could, and one particularly hard blow struck his assailant in the face and the man let out a pained shout. But Jungkook’s triumph proved short-lived, because in fury the man punched him in the ribs and Jungkook gagged, unable to double over due to the grip around his neck.

“I _thought_ it was you, you bastard!”

Jungkook recognized his attacker as the man from the café right before a fist like a sledgehammer smashed into his cheek and blood burst in his mouth. He sprawled across the wall, spitting red, but the man dragged him back and Jungkook’s head cracked to the side under a second blow. He felt his eye swell as he struck out, trying to fight back. The man yelled in pain when Jungkook’s fist bashed into his nose and the boy felt a warm wetness slick his knuckles, but just as quick iron fingers seized his hair and dragged him forward. Jungkook let out a shout that cut off when the man trapped him in a headlock. Stars danced across his eyes. He couldn’t breathe as punch after punch rammed against his stomach in a repeated staccato. His guts lurched with nausea and the hot taste of bile spilled across his tongue, but it had nowhere to go, trapped in his neck by the man’s grip. Jungkook jerked his elbows back, aiming for the man’s solar plexus in desperate fear.

“Yeah, fuck him up good, Changsun!”

“That’s the brat who insulted you, huh? Give him hell, hyung!”

The other three men stood by calling out jeers and hoots of support. They whooped when the man, Changsun, rammed his knee into Jungkook’s sternum and the boy felt the breath erupt from his lungs with a grunt. Then Changsun dropped him and he fell heavily onto the ground. Gasping for air, Jungkook crawled onto his hands and knees, struggling not to vomit from the pain. Vertigo made the world swoop up towards Jungkook; he coughed and blinked rapidly to clear his head. Thus he didn’t see the foot coming until the kick connected and the force of it threw Jungkook backwards. His head cracked against the concrete with a sickening sound, and the sky spun above. Blood filled his mouth again and he sputtered.

But it didn’t stop. While the other men shouted encouragement the kicks kept coming and coming. They collided against his head, his ribs, the soreness in his stomach and Jungkook couldn’t do anything except raise his arms in an attempt to protect his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and cried out with every blow that connected. Inside he screamed, begging his magic for once in his life to heed him: _HelpmehelpmehelpmePLEASEPLEASEHELPME_ —

But nothing happened.

Nothing happened.

Out of nowhere, Jungkook realized the kicks had ceased.

There was a scraping sound by his ear and then the weight of the world shoved down Jungkook’s neck, pressing his face into the cold pavement. He groaned and writhed, pain shooting through every inch of his body upon the movement. From far away, distorted as though they were underwater, Jungkook could hear concerned murmurs before a low voice warbled, “Whoa, Changsun, man, I don’t think that’s—”

There was a moment in which Jungkook glimpsed something brick-red along his wavering vision. Then a brutal agony exploded through the back of his skull, and he plunged into blackness.

 

And then there was silence.

 

 

And then there was bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o dang kookie ded :O  
> congration on graduating tho i'm proud and i love u even if i just wrote u gettin beat to a pulp bc u spilled tea ily bby
> 
>  
> 
> Also, tags have been edited!


	7. Let Me Know

****The sun shone as promised, his hair was clean, he had fresh clothes on, and from one hand swung a plastic bag of bulgogi burgers. Jimin could hardly believe he wasn’t drooling.

Easily one of the worst parts about being a cat-person, aside from the obvious, was the fact that each of his senses tripled that of a normal human. So a thousand scents smacked him across the face every which-way he turned, clamoring for his attention, which he sorted in his head with a speed borne from familiarity. The stench of rotting trash, muddy pavement, and overheated bodies billowed around him like the rainbow of an oil spill. Turn left and there was the metal-copper-rust of the auto repair shops. Turn right and there was the jumbled rice-meat-vegetables-canned-food aroma of a market. Tilt down and there was his own scent, as familiar to him as his own skins, now mingled with detergent and washed cotton and Jungkook.

Jimin had taken care to pick the smallest T-shirt in Jungkook’s closet. Yet it was still way too large. The shirt slipped so low off one shoulder that people tended to stare at him oddly as he passed. Some gaped when they saw his eyes instead: bottle-green and gold, and quickly averted. But he didn’t care. Heart light as a balloon, Jimin whistled a melody that trailed ribbon-like from his lips. If he were to be sincere (and slightly creepy), he had to admit that Jungkook had a nice scent about him. It wasn’t woodsmoke or vanilla or the tears of three A.M. college suffering as cliché might have claimed. No, Jungkook just smelled…nice. Soft. Warm, almost — like if you had to give scent to a flame. Ha. Wow, that did sound weird.

Though come to think of it, the unicorn had a nice scent as well.

Jimin’s whistling faltered and he paused mid-stride.

He stood on the street outside Jungkook’s apartment. That scent spun over him now, more delicate than spider silk, and sweeter than snow.

Would it be strange to say that although Jimin had never seen the unicorn before — never seen _anything_ like the unicorn before — the moment he caught its scent, he had known what it was?

A scoffed laugh escaped him. “Maybe not,” he whispered to himself, and then heaved a sigh. He tasted magic once more, rushed hot across his tongue with the exhalation.

Right. Because the unicorn _bled_ magic, which was something he didn’t know what to make of.

(A lie. There was some small part of him — a lock of hair, or a finger, or the curve of a joint — that knew precisely what he wanted to make of it.)

Jimin trudged up the iron stairs. Hooked the spare key Jungkook had told him about out of its crack in the wall, and unlocked the door as quietly as possible. He didn’t glance up until he had entered, closed the door, put the bag down, and mingled his sharp, spice-pungent scent with that spider-silk one.

Then he did, and gold-green irises locked with ancient dark eyes. Jimin smiled faintly. “I’m home,” he said.

Well, fine, technically he was in _Jungkook’s_ home, but the unicorn didn’t seem one for technicalities. The white beast reclined beside the blankets that constituted Jungkook’s bed, where he shone almost painfully bright even with the sunbeams muted by tightly-drawn curtains. He seemed to have been watching the dust motes that spun lazy waltzes through the air, but now gazed at Jimin.

Fuck. He really didn’t belong in a place like this.

“Hello, shape-changer.”

“Hi.” Jimin stared and thought, _Humans are so dumb_. It was downright mind-boggling how they could mistake the unicorn for a common horse. For starters he looked nothing like one, what with the cloven hooves and small stature and too-dainty head. The leonine tail ought to give him away too, but if not that, then the air around him.

Jimin dared not come too close because of that: how he changed the air around him.

But then, he always did like to consider himself a flirt with danger. Hence he stepped across the floor to sit before the unicorn, albeit with a good foot of space between them. This close, his skin buzzed and he couldn’t tell whether he found the sensation pleasant or frightening — and his stomach plunged when the unicorn stretched forward to study him closer. Mere inches separated their faces.

Mere centimeters separated Jimin’s forehead from that horn. He could feel where the spirals’ proximity both burned and froze his skin. His heart jumped against his ribs, trying to get away from the sheer power emanated.

The words rose unbidden: “I like him.” A beat. “Jungkook, I mean.”

The unicorn exhaled but it wasn’t quite a sigh. “Yes, the magician,” he said. “He is kind. A bit uncertain of himself and his own four limbs, but kind nonetheless, which makes up for a little of the former.”

“So does that mean you like him too?”

No response. Jimin and the unicorn watched one another for a long time. That horn gleamed; silver or blue or iridescent, Jimin couldn’t tell. The unicorn spoke. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Jimin hissed, sitting up straight. “Because he asked to come with you, and you agreed to let him, so yeah it kinda _matters_ if you like him or not.”

“He’s mortal,” replied the unicorn as though that explained everything. Perhaps if Jimin were a different sort of myth, it would have. “They are all the same to me. Wearied, and naïve, and too full of hunger and greed and sorrow. But I am none of these things, nor will I ever be, and so it doesn’t matter.”

A pang of something hot and anguished pierced through Jimin’s chest. He uttered an odd laugh and turned away.

“In other words, he’s as strange to you as you are to him,” he said, the words slicing into his tongue on their way out. “Jungkook looks at you and sees this…this wonder, this great and unattainable mystery from thousands of years back. He looks at you, at _both of us_ and he sees things that should be long dead. All the old forgotten secrets that used to fill the world but died long ago.” Jimin paused then. He let out another laugh. “Well. Most of them, at least. But that’s the thing. Do you understand? He’s in love with the mystery of magic, with the things it promises him. With its secrets — just like Eun-seo and all the other crazy people in this age who go around claiming magic so they can pretend they’re more than they deserve to be. At least he can back _that_ up. But do you really think that he…that Jungkook understands what he’d be doing by helping you?”

“Why did you ask to come along,” the unicorn asked with a tilt to his head, “if this is what you think?”

Jimin grinned. His cat-eyes shone like dull peridot. It was a grim expression. “I told you already. I like him. And because Jungkook needs me too, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. I don’t know if he was born with his magic, or if he just found it, but _I_ was. And I can at least be there for him when he realizes that this—” He gestured at himself, then at the unicorn. “—isn’t what he actually wants.”

“You can’t decide that for him.”

“No, but I sure as hell can point it out!” Jimin snapped. Blinking, the unicorn lifted his horn and the shapeshifter shrank at once, recalling who he spoke to. Yet his eyes remained wide, wet and slit-pupiled. “You want to find the rest of your kind. I get that. I really, really do. But I need— I have to ask you…”

Sadness touched the edges of his face, made him hesitate, before his features collapsed into a well-worn mask of grief. Doubt. Loneliness.

“Is it… _right_ to bring unicorns back into a world like this? A world that doesn’t even know them anymore? Truly?”

The unicorn gazed at him in silence.

In place of a ticking clock, the drip of the leaky kitchen sink filled the silence. Then Jimin laughed a third time. A tight, bitter sound.

“Yeah. Guess we’ll just have to find out, huh?”

The unicorn turned towards the window. With an almost sad softness to his voice, he said, “For what it matters, I think I do like him.”

But Jimin responded only with a grim smile, and then pushed himself away.

* * *

Yoongi was royally fucked.

Wait, no. Scratch that. He was _imperially_ fucked, dry, sideways and with a ten-foot pole to boot. These last couple hours ended up a complete and utter waste. He was either unqualified, or unable, or too late to get whatever jobs were even being offered. At one point Yoongi had to bite his tongue to refrain from snapping, _Why don’t you say you just don’t want me_ because he knew that wasn’t the case at all. Everything from busboy to grocery bagger, he just couldn’t do for one reason or another. The urge to laugh bubbled up inside his chest; he grinned tight and mirthless at himself instead. Shit, maybe he ought to head for one of those entertainment companies, ask to be a comedian, seeing how his whole life was a massive joke. After all, did Yoongi honestly think — honestly _believe_ for more than a second that he’d be able to find good work by wandering around aimlessly? That he’d manage to procure a whole new job in less than a quarter of a day?

That sort of naïvete worked for children and fairytale heroes. Not for a man with no career, no future, and so few remaining hopes he could count them on one hand.

Exhaustion slogged through his veins like a narcotic. Little by little the sky had sunk into an inky wash of orange-blue. The temperature dropped by the hour, and already Yoongi could see his breath forming clouds around his mouth. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, leaned his forehead against a streetlamp, released a heavy sigh. People passed him by, unnoticing, uncaring. The glow of shops and restaurants threw his shadow across the road where it reclined on the asphalt and wheezed, and for a while Yoongi stood and watched the cars pass through it. A hunched, hazy darkness with his shape: a ghost.

“So,” he whispered to nobody. “What now?”

There was, of course, no reply. Not until the wind picked up.

Yoongi jolted at the loud plastic _snap_ behind him. When he turned around, the corner of a blue tarp billowed and waved, loose over a broken window. Without thinking twice, Yoongi stepped forward to snatch it and yank it back to conceal the glass. He tied the cord to a loose brick and set that on the windowsill as an anchor. The wind whistled irritably around the tarp, hissing past the jagged edges of glass. Yoongi could hear soft classical music playing inside, and that was what made him pause and look again, this time with clearer eyes.

His face paled when he saw a brown piano — beautiful and shattered behind the covered window.

“Shit,” he hissed and yanked the hood of his coat over his head. Dark eyes flicked around a furtive, nervous gaze. Yoongi hiked up his shoulders and began to back away, intending to run (the way he always had, whispered something dark and cruel into his ear; the way he always did, such a _coward_ ) before he spotted the sign hung on the door and froze, mid-step.

In small neat letters: _Soon to Close Down._

All of a sudden Yoongi felt like the biggest dickhead on the planet.

He grit his teeth together, expression pained. His left hand fisted inside his coat pocket, fingers tight around the edges of his phone. He messed up. Big time. Even bigger than usual. He glanced at the sign, then back at the crudely-patched-up window and a sick sense of shame welled under his diaphragm. He ought to leave before the owner came out and realized just who had vandalized the store. Hoseok and Namjoon would be home in two hours max, and if Yoongi didn’t find any work before then, he would either have to stay out late or come home and break to them the bad news. And considering that he had no intention of seeing their sympathetic faces, or overhearing their muttered disappointments that night, Yoongi had to hurry up.

But.

The broken window.

The splintered piano.

An agonizing minute passed before Yoongi ran a hand down his face and muttered, “I’m going to regret this.”

One foot in front of the other, and then a bell on the door rang.

The interior of the music shop was cold from the autumn weather’s constant trespassing. Further in along the walls crowded racks of CD albums and restored vinyl records, arranged beside acoustic guitars in various shapes and styles, speakers, and electronic keyboards. Tiny packages of coiled violin strings hung on a stand behind the counter; the door to a back room peeked open to reveal an unstrung cello. The perfume of wood and resin coated everything. He was the only person there.

Yoongi turned towards the brown piano, and his heart twisted and fled to the space beneath his throat. Broken ivory keys had been gathered and piled atop the closed lid where they gleamed like strange, monochrome teeth. This close, Yoongi saw how the pedals shone bronze, how pearly bits of glass caught between the missing keys’ spaces. Yoongi’s fingers twitched in desire to pick them out. But he kept still.

“Hello, may I help you?”

He started and turned to see an elderly woman emerge from the back room. She peered at him with kind curiosity. Her hair was more salt than pepper, and both her fine-boned hands seemed a paradox within themselves: fingertips dotted with calluses, yet textured the frail softness of tissue paper along the backs and palms. Sea-green veins streamed beneath her skin like a flower’s roots. Yoongi dropped his gaze, abruptly self-conscious of his frumpy clothes and mussed hair.

“Just…browsing,” he said, low and uncertain. The old woman smiled and it was a quiet, resigned look despite the kindness that remained in her face.

“Ah, yes, take your time. The music won’t be going anywhere,” she said with a short laugh and all-encompassing gesture. Yoongi cracked a taut smile and turned aside. Another draft blew in through the broken window to punch a hole in his gut. He shivered and the store owner noticed.

“Are you cold, dear?” she asked, chirped and concerned as a mother bird. “I’m terribly sorry. I usually have the heat turned on but it’d be no use with the window the way it is.”

Yoongi shifted his weight from foot to foot. “What happened?” he finally ventured to ask. His insides riled with apprehension but the old woman merely sighed and smiled, weary.

“One of the kids, I suppose,” she said. “I don’t usually watch the shop, but my daughter had class today and so I came in this morning to find it like that. You know how children are, with all their dares and courage tests. It’s just a shame that piano there — the brown one next to you, dear — it happened to be in the way. Only the keys broke but I can’t afford to fix it up. Profits are low enough as is, so I can’t take the time and money out to repair both it and the window.”

A crease furrowed Yoongi’s eyebrows. “So you’ll just leave it like this?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’ve called for someone to come look at the window tomorrow, but I’m afraid the piano will have to stay broken. What a shame, really, the lovely thing. I liked it a lot myself.” The old woman gave a sad smile. “It’s worse that it’s right by the entrance, too. Customers won’t like seeing a wrecked piano when they walk inside; not very promising, you know? Ah, at least business is slow these days anyway. Soon we won’t have any at all. You’re the first to drop by in quite a while, dear.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He stared blankly at the brown piano, at the thin film of dust that covered its maple surface. With extreme hesitance, he lifted his hand to brush the remaining keys. They were smooth and cool under rough fingertips, but Yoongi snatched his hand back as if they had burned him.

Memories spilled from the gaps of the missing keys and flooded the floorboards around his feet. He gulped back the looming anguish. Guilt crushed his ribs and thickened his voice when he said, “I’ll do it.”

The old woman blinked and her lips parted in surprise. “Oh, but I’ve already called the repairman—”

“Cancel him, please. I’ll do it for free.” Guilt also made him address the floor instead of properly facing her, and he added, “I can fix the piano for you too. I used to play, I’m good with repairs.”

She stared at him for a long, stunned minute before a smile spread over her cheeks and bloomed along the wrinkles around her eyes. The old woman stepped around the counter and up to him, where Yoongi noticed that she walked small and hunched with arthritis. She raised a hollow-boned hand to pat his arm, gentle, and Yoongi forced himself to look her in the face. “Now what’s your name, my boy?” she asked. He swallowed hard.

“My name is Min Yoongi, ma’am.”

“Ahh, you can call me Granny, Yoongi. Practically everyone who lives on this street knows me as grandmother. And how old are you, dear?”

“I’m twenty-four, Granny.”

“Such a sweet child, just like my Younha,” she said. “Well, I suppose if it’s no trouble to you, I’d be delighted to have you come back to our shop, Yoongi. What do you say you come around, hmm, twelve tomorrow afternoon?”

Yoongi resisted the urge to wince. It was far earlier than when he usually awoke, but he supposed that either way he would have needed to start disciplining his sleep schedule regardless. “Okay,” he said and fought the tremor threatening to creep into his voice. “I’ll come.”

“Good! Oh, and before I forget!” Granny shuffled back to the counter to root around, then when she came back, she handed a small paper rectangle out to him. “Here, our card. All our contact information is on it if you need to reach us.”

“Thank you.” Yoongi took the card and gave it a glance-over before he tucked it securely into his back pocket. Then he stood for a minute, unsure what to say or do next. The presence of the piano seemed to reach out for him and he stepped back.

“I’m…I’m gonna go now.”

“All right. You have a safe night, Yoongi.” The old shopkeeper smiled. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Granny,” he whispered. Then Yoongi ducked out of the shop, bell jingling behind him, and hurried down the darkening street. Shadows pressed and caught at his legs, and the card burned in his pocket. He inhaled deep enough for his lungs to prickle with frost. The exhale stung his nose and billowed like fog as the music store faded into the night.

It wasn’t a job. But it was better than nothing.

“I can do this,” Yoongi whispered to himself. _It won’t be like last time._ The words quivered as they left his lips, however, and fell to the ground where the darkness snatched them away. He wished he could believe them.

His right hand tingled. The memory of smooth ivory keys itched along his fingers, all the way home.

* * *

Jungkook drifted amidst a black, stagnant ocean and felt no pain at all.

He no longer had to envision a pool to calm his breathing, for water engulfed him entirely. Jungkook breathed liquid itself, if indeed his lungs even worked at all. Flat darkness seeped inky into his skin, gushed into his nose and mouth to fill the hollow of his senseless body. Every thought was taken away and suspended within the undulant water: ephemeral and insignificant, much like Jungkook himself compared to the vastness of this abyss. Silence that wasn’t silence crushed him down yet lifted him up. He floated, lost without eyes and ears and touch. Not that he even needed them; there was nothing to see, or feel, or listen to in this place. Nothing but silence. Nothing but peace.

It didn’t last long.

The heat came in bits and pieces. Gradual, yet to Jungkook it might as well have been a blow against the rest of that numb dark. He let out a soundless whine as warmth pricked the back of his head, drawing a spark amidst the blackness that made him writhe in discomfort. He didn’t want the feverish heat that poured into him, drop by drop until it began to spread through the rest of him like sickness. Terror dim and far-off ignited somewhere in Jungkook’s existence. He wanted the silence and the thoughtless dark. He tried to grab onto it but his hands remained motionless. He tried to scream but couldn’t recall what or where his mouth was, or how to move it.

Then a white-hot needle drove into his nape, enough to purge the dark inside him like lava poured down his throat. Jungkook shrieked without noise at the explosion of _thought_ and _feeling_ that followed. The silence vanished. As if the information was sent across a great distance, he realized he had a body, a head and face that pulsed with nauseating pain; all his senses reeled inside his skull. He was freezing. No, he was burning up. Both at the same time. Could that happen? He breathed air now and the coldness of it turned his chest to ice. His innards heaved. The last of the blackness spilled out from his mouth — wait, it was acidic. Vomit. He gagged and struggled to inhale. This time he welcomed the coldness in his lungs.

His head hurt. The back scalded. Jungkook pried his eyes open, but crushed them shut once he only found that his vision swam black and blotchy. Why was it like that? His eyes throbbed, the bridge of his nose too. His tongue tasted like bile and faint copper, and he let his lips part so that saliva could dribble out the taste. Nasty.

“Help,” it occurred to him to say, because obviously something was wrong if he ached this bad and couldn’t move or see all that clearly. “S…Somebody.” No answer. There should be people. There was always people. Why wasn’t there people? Jungkook tried to raise his head but the pain flared until completely unbearable, so he dropped back down and regretted it at once. The ground stank where he lay stomach-down, and tiny bits of rock shoved into his cheek. He wished he could float like before.

 _Scrape_.

The sound wriggled through Jungkook’s ears and he perked up as much as he was capable. Noise. People. Help.

_Scrape, scrape._

“H…” he tried to call, but couldn’t seem to figure out how to do so a second time. But the noise stopped and Jungkook shivered, goosebumps crawling over his skin. Lucky his stomach had emptied out since it now flip-flopped with dim, anxious fear. Jungkook groped around the dark before he remembered his eyes, and so he opened them.

A shadow sat inches from his face. Staring right at him.

Jungkook’s entire body locked up. His mind blinked out. The lights of the store signs outside the alley seared into his retinas but he didn’t think to close them, stare wholly fixated on the shadow-thing. It remained statue-still. Jungkook’s pounding head couldn’t wrap itself around the creature’s form, too many limbs and mouths and ripped appendages for him to comprehend. Eyes ( _holes_ ) gaped, pitted and gouged into the thing’s face as it looked and looked at him. He began to tremble.

“Go ‘way,” he croaked, but to his horror it stirred at the sound of his voice. A malformed — hand? claw? did it matter? — reached out for his arm, which was the part of him closest to the shadow-thing. A spark ignited, a brief flood of heat gave Jungkook enough lucidity to claw at the ground and drag himself away despite the ensuing agony. Bruised skin and muscle screamed in protest, and the creature was unperturbed. Jungkook couldn’t get away, couldn’t scream, couldn’t think. The thing went to touch him, face grimaced and hollow. Jungkook shut his eyes against the horrific sight and waited.

“…which is ridiculous, if you ask me. Of all the things to accuse him, misogyny is the last thing that should come to mind _especially_ considering the way he treats his younger sister. It’s an awesome song and a great video, and he should’ve been free to visually express himself however he wanted.”

The shadow-thing shrilled and vanished, melting into the shade between the alley walls and the rays of light that poured in. Jungkook lay panting, confused not by the creature’s disappearance but by the voices he heard approaching. He…He knew them. Right? A name danced around his head but slipped away whenever he tried to grab it. He groaned in frustration. The voices stopped.

“Uh… Namjoon, tell me you also heard that.”

He knew that one, too. Jungkook dragged his hand across the ground, the asphalt damp and frigid under his raw bleeding knuckles. Voices. People. Namjoon. He knew them. Call out.

“H-Help.”

“What the—” the first voice boomed and then footsteps slammed towards the alley. Towards him. A shadow fell across his face and Jungkook winced when a little shriek rang out over the quiet. Shoes scuffed the ground by his aching head in panic.

“Holy shit, is he dead?!”

“Hoseok, calm down! He’s not dead, he just called out for us, didn’t he? Yah, you—” A broad hand on his spine, shaking him. “Are you all right? What the hell happened?”

Jungkook moaned in pain ( _the shaking hurt, his ribs hurt, his hands his face his head everything_ ) and lolled his eyes up to peek. The face above him froze in shock. For some reason he thought of rice cakes.

“Wh… _Jungkook_?”

“Ow,” he mumbled back, miserable.

“He’s bleeding,” whispered the other one. Hoseok. His voice came from further off and Jungkook spotted orange hair, gilded round the edges by white street-light. A tall shape moved closer, and trembling hands touched the hair plastered wet to the back of his head by blood. “I may not be a doctor, but Joon, this looks really, _really_ bad.”

“I know!” growled Joon. No, Namjoon — his name was Namjoon, Jungkook remembered a Namjoon. “Jungkook, can you hear me? Don’t fall asleep, okay? Fuck, he threw up too, that can’t be a good sign. Hoseok, call an ambulance. We have to get him to the hospital.”

The words ripped through Jungkook like an alarm and his arm jolted upwards. He heard both Namjoon and Hoseok yelp when Jungkook seized the front of Namjoon’s tank top with an unexpectedly-powerful grip. But he didn’t notice their startled faces, too distracted by the fear that streaked along his veins, hummed like a wasp nest. Wide bruised eyes darted around, wild with panic.

“No, no, plea…” He struggled to speak as heat crackled along the surface of his brain. “N-No ho’pital…”

Namjoon stared slack-jawed. “The fuck? Kid, you have a _dent_ in your fucking skull! We need to get you help!”

“M’fine,” Jungkook wheezed. “Had…had worse…”

“ _Worse_?” Hoseok sounded incredulous and a bit fearful. Jungkook felt cold fingers part his hair to look at the wound. “What’s happened to you that could be worse than this?!”

“Don’t take me to th’ ho’pital,” Jungkook managed to say instead. “Please, plea…please…”

Namjoon frowned, mouth twisting at the corner. “What’re you, a fugitive?” he asked in a low, suspicious tone. He pried Jungkook’s fingers from his shirt, although he still did so carefully in order not to harm the boy further. “Why the hell not?”

Jungkook wanted to hit something, to hell with the state of his hands. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t! They wouldn’t understand even if he told them! Tears of frustration, fear, and pain pricked at his eyes and from the tiny noise Hoseok made, he knew the older boy saw them. “Please, just no…” he said, a weak sob escaping him. Dizziness slurred his words. “I ca…can’t go to hos’tal. Dun’ make me go.”

Silence descended. Through the haze of heat that had begun to spill over his eyes, he saw Hoseok shoot Namjoon a helpless, frightened look.

“What do we do?” he whispered. “There’s stuff against forcing people to go to the ER, isn’t there? ‘Right to refuse medical treatment’ or something? If he keeps saying no, we can’t make him no matter how much we want to.”

“But we _have to_ ,” Namjoon said with increasing volume, clearly upset. Jungkook whimpered at the noise. “Look at him, Hoseok, he’s going to die without some kind of medical attention! He nearly has a hole in his head for fuck’s sake! What else can we do?!”

“Nuh…” Jungkook stirred. Blinked open heavy eyelids. He felt so tired. He felt too hot. “No…Not g…gon’ die. Fine…I’m ma’ic…”

“Jungkook? I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” said Hoseok above him. Jungkook grunted in distant irritation and wiggled his hands. They felt heavier than rocks on his wrists.

“Ma’ic…watch…” He managed to get his hands up to his nape, where they draped over Hoseok’s long fingers. Jungkook accidentally pressed into the ragged edges of the gash and he cringed at the flare of pain. Seeing this, Hoseok gently began to tug his hands away.

“Just lie still, okay, Kook-ah? You’ll be fine, I promise. Namjoon-ah, how much battery does your phone have left?”

 _They’re going to call the ambulance,_ Jungkook thought with a sickening lurch. He tried to take hold of the heat coiling through his body but it passed through his grasp like smoke. Namjoon and Hoseok’s voices quavered above him, becoming more and more indistinct as the world faded, and Jungkook’s heart plunged when he registered the _tap-tap-tap_ of a phone being unlocked. That was it. He was done for.

Drained, Jungkook gave in. He slumped against the ground and relinquished every ounce of control. Hoseok’s fingers were ice-pack-cool under his and he closed his eyes. He breathed. Blew ripples across a pool of black bottomless water and thought, _Magic, do what you want. Do as you will._

For a few seconds, there was nothing.

Then Hoseok gasped and cried out, “Whoa, what—?!”

The blaze erupted once more, licking across both Jungkook’s and Hoseok’s skin. Jungkook’s hands kindled star-hot; the breath on his lips became a desert heatwave as the magic spoke resonant and commanding with his voice, meanwhile his heart caught sky-blue fire. The curve of his ribs ignited and his marrow boiled with something steeped and innate. That terrible, beautiful heat charred him from the inside out, coalescing into a scorch-point behind his head which cauterized broken bone and skin. A tongue of invisible flame — so hot it felt like a shard of ice against his flesh — sealed the wound and then obliterated the last of Jungkook’s muddled confusion with a solar flare. He shuddered and tasted the magic: sweet-spicy-bitter across his split lip.

Then, just as fast as it came, it imploded into a black hole and Jungkook collapsed. He was empty again, limp, face-down on the ground and rasping for air. Every inch of his skin tingled, most of his body still aching terribly — but the wound in his head had vanished, with nothing but the dried blood as proof it had ever existed. Minutes upon minutes of stunned silence ticked by, meanwhile the threat of unconsciousness crept up on Jungkook. He had nearly gone when at last hesitant fingers poked the back of his head. The touch was light, very light, as if unable to believe what had just happened.

“It’s…” Hoseok’s voice shook. “It’s gone.”

Jungkook heard Namjoon breathe, “Holy shit,” and “ _Magic_ ,” right before he blacked out.

* * *

He had exchanged trees for plaster walls. Earth for pavement. Grass for scattered textbooks. Within the cramped space of Jungkook’s apartment, the unicorn felt more alone than ever before.

There wasn’t much to do. Unicorns should never be bored, such timeless creatures are they, but now he could do nothing but count his breaths and watch the sun’s gradual, downwards climb from its zenith through the window. It appeared yellow as a pressed flower against the indifferent sky. The unicorn listened to the rush and roar of cars down the road. The sounds thrummed along the restlessness inside him, and he lay with his eyes half-closed and weary. Wan sunlight poured onto his back to warm him and he gleamed like a mirror beneath it. His horn glowed the color of jagged, salt-worn seashell.

The shapeshifter and the unicorn waited hours for Jungkook to return. While the former became increasingly agitated the longer the magician didn’t appear, amidst the apartment’s evening lull, the unicorn thought. He bowed his ancient head and contemplated the magnitude of his journey — of this strange, steel city called Seoul. Despair crept over his neck like a spider and he quivered his skin to shake it away. _I may spend years in search for the others and never find them at all,_ he mourned. Perhaps the company of the shape-changer would be for the best. As the darkness of autumn nighttime descended, it turned the city streets into a winding, neon-lit labyrinth; only with Jimin’s help had they been able to traverse it yesterday. So many corners, so many crevices. His people could be anywhere.

“Or perhaps nowhere at all,” he whispered to the dust motes in the air, unmindful of the huge cat-eyes that darted to him. “Maybe they have all been put under spells, as I was. Scattered into nothing, into false statues and relics. Truth, made indistinguishable from falsehood until not even I would know them.”

For the unicorn remembered what the curator had told him: _Only the thing that caught the rest of your kind will know you when it sees you._

When the sky had turned char-black and the moon begun to emerge, Jimin leaped down from his place on the bookshelf. His shoulders were bunched, mouth mashed into a slash of worry. The pupils of his eyes blew into huge dark holes. “That’s it,” he said, words pitched high with distress. “I’m going out to find him. There’s no reason he should take this long to get back. Something’s wrong.”

“Be still, shape-changer,” said the unicorn in his eternal calm. “The magician can find his way home. He is wiser than he appears.”

Jimin’s jaw clenched. He grabbed the spare key and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans, then yanked open the window, saying as he did, “You can stay here if you want, but I know this city enough to remember it’s a fucking ugly place. I just found Jungkook, and like hell I’m about to let him get hurt. I’ll be back soon.”

“Shape-changer,” the unicorn sighed as Jimin pulled his cat-shape over his head. One blink later, a large tortoiseshell feline crouched on the bookshelf, breath misted as it poked its head past the curtains to peer around. “You worry for nothing. The magician—”

“ _Stop calling him that!_ ” Jimin’s eyes flashed as he spun around, a boy once again. Fury as well as a raw, bottomless hurt lit his irises acid-green. The gold in them turned brittle. “Don’t you get it?! Jungkook doesn’t belong with us! He _shouldn’t_ belong with us, our illusions and witchcraft and occult bullshit! He’s a kid! A fucking human kid! He goes to school, he takes classes about songwriting and notation, and he should never, ever have to worry about the world seeing him as a _freak_! He should… He should…” Jimin’s face began to crumble. “H-He should be able to have friends, and a family, and a house with a backyard and somebody who cares and…and hot _fucking_ water—”

Jimin’s words cut off when someone pounded on the door.

He went immobile. Even the wetness in his wide eyes appeared to freeze on his lashes. The unicorn skidded backwards into the bathroom threshold, wary gaze affixed to the front door. They held their breaths in fearful anticipation (or at least, Jimin did) but then their hopes shattered when the pounding came again, even harder.

“Yah, I know you’re in there! What have I warned you about making noise, and with the window open this time too, you brat?! Open the door this instant!”

It was a very angry, middle-aged woman, and Jimin blanched. He clapped a hand over his mouth in horror. “Shit. The landlady,” he croaked in a tiny voice. He’d completely forgotten Jungkook’s warning to be quiet. Frantic, Jimin whipped his head back and forth before he shot the unicorn a desperate look. “Quick! Hide!” he hissed as a third round of door-beating started up. The unicorn slipped into the cramped bathroom (which Jimin honestly did feel sorry about) and the shapeshifter jumped to close the door behind him before running to meet the landlady.

He had barely opened enough of a crack to glimpse a woman’s sour face and thinned black hair, before a vise-like grip clamped around his arm. Jimin yowled and stumbled as the landlady dragged him outside. He avoided falling by a narrow margin, but he felt a queasy sense of dread when he looked up to see the woman snarling down at him. No wonder Jungkook had acted so terrified of her.

“So he _did_ have overnight guests!” she spat. “That brat thought he could sneak one past me? I’ve owned this building for more than twenty years, I’ll show him to try and break the rules behind my back! Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jimin said, desperate. “I broke in, I was looking for stuff to sell! I don’t know your tenant!”

The landlady sneered and dragged him up by the forearm despite his yelp of pain. “Oh, really? Then I suppose you were thinking of selling paper and bedsheets! You think that child rents this place for the _view_? He’s a penniless, jobless little fuck who can’t stand on his own two feet and has to depend on everyone else for money! It’s a wonder I even get my rent pay on time. Pathetic!”

Protective anger flooded Jimin and he wrenched his arm out of her grasp. “Don’t fucking talk about him like that!”

She shoved him back into the apartment, following close behind. “Where is he hiding?” the landlady demanded; Jimin was seriously beginning to hate her. “I’m sick of his attitude, always skulking around like a thief, not even bothering to say a word of hello like he’s got something to hide. You think you’re so high-and-mighty just because you got into that top-tier school, do you? Doesn’t that explain why I see you almost every day, begging in the square with your cheap tricks and shit voice for loose change! Get out here, Kim Yujeong!”

Jimin froze. His eyebrows drew together in bewildered confusion.

_Kim Yujeong?_

But there was no time to dwell on that because before he could stop her, the landlady marched straight to the bathroom door and threw it open.

Silence.

The unicorn illuminated the entire room like a candle, his body throwing soft snowy light over the mint tiles and dilapidated shower. From the inside out his horn shone, and as he stared at the landlady, whose face crumpled into shock before him, those sea-deep eyes gleamed darker than her bitterness and pierced straight into her heart, her sorrows, her childhood. His ugly surroundings made him all the more beautiful, and Jimin forced himself to turn away so that he wouldn’t unwittingly start to cry.

But the moment lasted for a mere few heartbeats before the landlady’s visage twisted, and she shrieked at the top of her lungs, “ _GET OUT!_ ”

She charged, startling the unicorn into bounding past her, and Jimin ran too when the woman turned on him with a vengeance. Red lips curled back from her teeth as she chased them both out of the apartment, down the iron stairs. Jimin’s pulse hammered loud as thunder in his too-sensitive ears, each breath coming in shallow pants.

(Not loud enough: not to drown out the reedy gasps behind him. Neither was his eyesight human enough to miss the tears that streamed down her face.)

“You get the fuck out of my sight!” the landlady screamed at the top of the stairs. Her voice cracked mid-sentence. “You tell that Yujeong brat that he gets three days to clear his shit out of my building and scram, got it?! And tell him to take his filthy fucking animal with him!”

Jimin and the unicorn fled. The latter at first guided Jimin through the dark, silent streets, his horn a beacon of light, but soon enough Jimin took the lead and it became the unicorn who cantered after him as the shapeshifter ran and ran and kept running. His pants shifted to thin whimpers but he pumped his legs faster, uncaring now where he went and where they might end up. The bottoms of his feet soon began to sting. The scent of copper pricked at his nose. He realized too late that he was barefoot.

Jimin didn’t know when he stopped; he just stopped. He wound up slumped on the ground in an alleyway wheezing for air, whole frame shaking, feet bloody and loose T-shirt plastered to his chest with sweat. The unicorn stood close enough that he could feel warmth emanate from the creature’s presence. The wind dried his tears into salt-streaks down his cheeks. Jimin scrubbed at his eyes hard as sobs wracked his undernourished body.

Simple as that, Jungkook didn’t have a home anymore.

And it was all Jimin’s fault.

“What are we going to do now?” he rasped, the gold in his cat-eyes dull and hopeless. “What are we going to do?”

The unicorn stood above the boy and gazed at him with great sorrow. But he had no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONGRATULATIONS, you just made a new friend who invited you into his home, fed you, and let you spend the night! Do you proceed to:
> 
> A. raid his cupboards  
> B. steal his clothes (and undergarments)  
> C. use up all his hot water in a single morning  
> D. get him evicted out of said home, probably dooming him to life on the streets from now on  
> OR  
> E. ALL OF THE ABOVE :DDD
> 
> Also, just a reminder that all characters use Korean age (for obvious reasons, lol) so for example, Yoongi is twenty-four years old in Korea, twenty-three internationally.
> 
> Also also, I stayed up a whole night for the first time in my life to complete and publish this chapter. I didn't even bother to add an end note like usual; this thing's been edited like five times already, including right now. I went to bed at like 6 AM. It was terrible. Don't do it.


	8. Where You From

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you everyone for your patience!! I'm so sorry that this chapter took so many months to finally come out; for a long time I struggled with the beginning, writing and rewriting nearly five(??) times before I just threw my hands up and went, "Heck it, I'll just go along with whatever comes out," and even _then_ that was slow going with a busy summer and then school starting up again. With hope, however, I can begin to write this faster from here on. There is only one member left to officially make his appearance, along with someone else whom many of you probably think you've already seen, but the truth is you haven't. Not really.
> 
> But in the meantime, please enjoy this much-longer-than-usual chapter in exchange for the long wait! <3
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** _Description of a panic attack near the end of the chapter._ You can skip at the point where Jimin tells Jungkook what happened at the apartment and then continue where it says, "Several minutes ticked by."

The door frame echoed a dull _thunk_ and for the second time, Hoseok cringed and turned to shoot Namjoon half a glower, half a look of panic. He hissed, “Can you please _be more careful_?”

“I’m trying!” Namjoon hissed back. He returned a similar expression but shifted so that Jungkook’s head listed towards his shoulder instead of the wall. “The kid is heavy, all right? He’s not as small as he looks!”

Hoseok just huffed and dug through his pockets for the keys. At the same time he prayed that none of the neighbors would choose to come out right that second; Jungkook’s limp form hung over Namjoon’s back, and Hoseok wasn’t sure how he’d explain either that or the latter’s jittery demeanor. Namjoon kept blinking and muttering under his breath, such that every now and then, Hoseok would catch incredulous words like _magic_ and _impossible_ and _I can’t_ fucking _believe_. He sighed, slid another glance towards the unconscious boy. Jungkook’s temples were splotched violet, and in this dim lighting, there was no way to tell where the shadows on his face left off and the bruises began. The thought was sobering and Hoseok’s stomach clenched. Hastily, he turned away.

He’d grabbed the grocery bags he saw thrown across the alley ground. Inside were containers full of food and he thought they might’ve been Jungkook’s. No, actually — Hoseok didn’t know what he was thinking. He hadn’t _been_ thinking. Everything from the moment his hands caught invisible fire ( _the smell of flesh healing, cauterized blood and burning bone_ ) until now was fuzzy and blurred. It felt eerily similar to the moments when one of the kids from his studio broke or sprained something, and he had to step in as instructor. Vague memories, strange calm, people telling him once it was over how he’d taken impressive control of the situation. Autopilot engaged.

(Hoseok was just glad nobody ever seemed to notice how his hands shook after the fact.)

“Do you want me to take him, Joon?”

“No. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” Namjoon pasted on a shaky grin and gripped the boy’s thighs tighter. “I mean, he’s got _magic_ , which I wrote this whole thesis on freshman year saying how it _doesn’t_ exist and there is minimal evidence that it _ever_ existed in the first place, infuriating my nutjob of a professor and now considering that I’m piggybacking her entire fucking counterargument? Oh, I’m fine, I am A-fucking-okay.”

“All right then.”

“Hoseok, I’m being sarcastic! THIS IS COMPLETELY INSANE!”

“ _Shh!_ The neighbors will hear us!”

Hoseok shoved open the door and waved them in. A now-much-twitchier Namjoon all but darted inside and Hoseok slipped in after him to lock and bolt the door. The apartment smelled like dirty laundry and day-old jjajangmyeon. Hoseok stepped out of his shoes before shoving Namjoon’s stray laptop charger against the wall with one foot and putting the dirty grocery bags on the coffee table. It was dark and quiet — of the sort where not even those hidden things with their fondness for the shadows were slinking about. “Hyung?” Hoseok called out nonetheless, tentative. No answer, but that could mean anything. Only when he snuck down the hallway and cracked open the door to his and Yoongi’s bedroom did he sigh. Empty.

“Must’ve gone out after coming back from work,” he muttered. “All right, well, that’s one thing we can put off dealing with ‘till later.”

Behind him, Namjoon made a face. The living room’s lights turned his silhouette dim and hazy. Jungkook’s head drooped, had in fact already fallen partway off the older boy’s shoulder. On instinct, Hoseok reached out to cup his cheek and gently maneuver him back.

“And how exactly are we going to explain this? ‘Yah, hyung, we found a kid barely out of high school who can do actual sorcery and got the shit kicked out of him, so we brought him home.’ Yeah, he’s gonna love that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” Hoseok said and tried to put on one of his trademark sunshine smiles. “Yoongi-hyung loves me! So just leave everything to your one and only hope!”

Namjoon gave him a flat look. With a nervous note, he added, “Where are we gonna put the ki— Jungkook anyway? I’m not sure hyung will be that willing to give up his bed…and where will you sleep then, Hoseok?”

“I can take the floor,” Hoseok said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Oh, c’mon, you don’t have to do that.”

“No, really! We’ve got extra blankets, I’ll just spread them out and sleep on top. I’m just worried that the couch won’t be good for…you know.” He gestured at Jungkook’s motionless form. “I’ve woken up sore from it a ton of times, so, like, what if he goes to sleep on it already sore? I don’t want him to end up in more pain.”

“Couch is fine…”

Hoseok _shrieked_.

Namjoon cursed and aimed a low kick at Hoseok’s calf. “Now who’s being loud?!” he whisper-yelled, and so Hoseok gulped down the remainder of his scream in a way that it choked into an unmanly squeak instead. They stared at Jungkook, who was difficult to see in the dark hallway, but the harshness of his breathing rang loud and clear. Namjoon, with a confirmed and now wakeful magician on his backside, looked even more uncertain (and maybe a tad afraid), but nevertheless ventured, “You, uh, you okay, kiddo?”

“Mnn,” was the faint reply. That snapped Hoseok out of it. At once he grabbed Namjoon’s upper arm and steered them out into the living room. There, Jungkook’s face was thrown into relief: brow contorted in pain ( _confusion? fear? But why? Hoseok didn’t_ _understand_ anything _anymore_ ) and lips parted with each ragged pant. Seeing this from his peripheral vision, Namjoon pressed his mouth together and hurried to the couch, fear obviously ebbing away. Both young men worked to ease Jungkook out of his coat and onto the cushions, as careful as possible. A pained moan clogged his throat, and he glanced up at them. The corner of one eye was swollen blue-black and Hoseok growled low in his throat at the sight.

“I’d say we get you some ice, but if it’s already this bad, there’s not much that would do for you,” he said, fingertips skimming over the bruise. It didn’t escape Hoseok’s notice how Jungkook kept one nervous eye on him and his movements. “Namjoon, can you get the big pillow from my room? It’s the blue one with white stripes.”

“On it.”

Namjoon’s bare footsteps padded down the hallway. Making sure to move slow and gentle, Hoseok took Jungkook’s chin and turned his face towards his own. He ignored the goosebumps ghosting over his own skin at the touch and winced at the split bottom lip, the smear of blood down the boy’s mouth. Ugly red and purple wrapped around his neck, drawing Hoseok’s eyes whereupon his mouth turned down into a grimace.

“Did they choke you?”

There were a good few seconds in which Jungkook didn’t respond, save for his shuddery breaths speeding up. Hoseok kept his gaze on the injuries, and at length the boy closed his eyes and nodded, once.

“K…Kicked me, too.”

“Fuck,” Hoseok muttered, looking at the boy’s discolored nose and cheeks. “Right in the face?”

“E-Everywhere.”

Anger seethed in the depths of Hoseok’s belly, mingled with apprehension, but he smothered both down with a taut smile and shifted his eyes to where Namjoon was returning with the pillow. “Thanks, Namjoon. Here, Kook-ah, I’m gonna put this behind you, okay? This way you’re a bit comfier… There, you can lie back now.”

Jungkook slowly eased himself back, the pillow mushed between his shoulders and backside and the couch cushions. Namjoon leaned over him, his face matching the boy’s in anxiousness while Hoseok studied the scrapes on his knuckles.

“So. Uh. Do you need anything else, Jungkook?”

The boy’s eyes flicked up to the older boy, and Hoseok silently noted the shame that slid into them when Namjoon flinched ever-so-slightly. “No,” mumbled Jungkook, and then he looked away. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but nothing came when Hoseok waited. Brief, stiff silence began to creep over them before Hoseok shook it off by clearing his throat.

“Jungkook, I’m going to take a look at your stomach, if that’s all right? Just wanna be thorough, you don’t have to let me,” he added with what he hoped was a reassuring face.

Jungkook appeared distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of being so vulnerable in front of strangers, but still he nodded. Hoseok offered him a comforting smile and then turned to Namjoon.

“Do you remember where the first-aid kit is?”

“Way ahead of you,” Namjoon scoffed and lifted up a red-and-white box. Hoseok’s eyes widened, then crinkled with delight as Jungkook watched the exchange with a somewhat bewildered puzzlement.

“Are you a nurse?” he asked Hoseok after Namjoon left to fetch a damp washcloth. Hoseok startled before the words fully sank in, upon which he let out a cheerful laugh.

“Oh man, I wish! That’d be a cool job to have. But then I wouldn’t have as much social time, huh?” Hoseok hummed as he tore open a pack of gauze. “Nah, I’m just a dancer-slash-part-time dance instructor. I work at this studio called ‘3000 Hours’ a couple streets over, super nice. No matter how many times we warn people to stretch and remember their limits, though, accidents still happen. So sprained ankles, torn ligaments, broken fingers, I’ve dealt with them all.” He paused then and pointed at the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. His features were soft. “May I…?”

Jungkook inclined his chin and — after some initial hesitance — fumbled to pull up his shirt. Hoseok bit back a gasp, though he still couldn’t help the grim expression that pinched at his face. The bruising on Jungkook’s face was bad, yes, but it paled against the rest of him. Dark splotches of broken blood vessels covered the entirety of his torso. In some places his skin had even split open and bled; that explained the brown patches in his shirt. The very worst of it centered around the stomach and solar plexus, ellipses overlapping and misshapen, and Hoseok clenched one hand into a fist for an unconscious comparison.

Sprawled out on the couch, shadowed by bruises and bad lightbulbs, Jungkook looked smaller than ever and suddenly Hoseok couldn’t bring himself to be afraid.

“Kook?” he said in a quiet tone. “Is it fine for me to touch you? I’m just gonna check and make sure nothing’s broken.”

The boy’s eyes were shut tight. At Hoseok’s question, his throat bobbed as he swallowed and nodded a third time. As gently as he could, Hoseok splayed his fingers across the discolored skin and prodded every few inches. He felt Jungkook shudder now and then, but not until he reached his ribs did the boy utter a sharp whimper at his touch. Immediately he withdrew his hands.

“Right there?”

“I-It hurts,” Jungkook croaked. “Not…to breathe or anything, but it’s just _sore_.”

Hoseok exhaled through his nose and shook his head before reaching for the first-aid kit. “It doesn’t look like anything’s broken, thank goodness, but I’m still going to patch you up a bit. Any injuries below the waist? Your legs are…?”

“Nuh-uh…”

“Okay. Okay, that’s good. But if you start having really bad pain in your chest, or trouble breathing, you tell us right away, understand?”

Jungkook didn’t reply. Hoseok pulled out a pad of disinfectant wipes and cleaned off the blood scabbed across Jungkook’s stomach. He taped gauze over the cuts, taking care not to put too much pressure on the bruises, then shook out a bottle of painkillers and was scanning the room for a water bottle when he felt a tug on his hoodie. Looking down in surprise, he followed the hand there to Jungkook’s blank and vulnerable face.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Jungkook, something akin to fear in his eyes. “Why…Why are you helping me?”

Hoseok’s mouth dropped open, taken aback. Why? _Why?_ Why was that even a question?! Inexplicable fury shot through him and out of nowhere Hoseok wanted to scream, _Because you were bleeding out of your head and I thought you were gonna fucking die in front of us, that’s_ why _!_ He was saved from answering, however, by Namjoon’s low and rumbling voice.

“Well, we sure as hell weren’t going to leave you there, kid.” Namjoon pushed off the wall of the hallway entrance (how long had he been standing there?) and approached with a certain firmness to his step now. He ignored the startled, near-frightened expression Jungkook turned to him and fiddled with a purple washcloth, murmuring, “Maybe you did…heal the worst of it, but you were — are — still severely injured. Nobody in their right mind should abandon anyone in that kind of state and pretend they don’t have a responsibility to help.”

“But—”

Namjoon interrupted with a huff. “Look. Jungkook. I’m not going to pretend that we’re…that I’m not kinda freaking out right now. Hell, I’m about to _combust_ with all the questions I want to ask you — but I can’t, and I won’t, force you to tell me anything.” He gave a boy a tiny but genuine smile. “You’re safe here, okay? Whatever you’re— Whatever you’re hiding, or hiding from… I won’t ask, unless you decide to tell us yourself. Understand, Jungkook-ah?”

Jungkook opened his mouth, then closed it after a beat and fixed his eyes on the carpet. His expression was strained, caught between relief and uncertainty, and something like awe. He whispered, “Thank you.”

Namjoon’s cheeks dimpled. “Mm. No problem, kiddo.”

Hoseok glanced between the two of them for a moment before he surprised them by jumping to his feet with a whoop. The angry, panicked words on the cusp of his lips had been tossed away — locked away.

 _Thud_ , fell a mental wall between him and them, and then a huge sunny grin flashed across his lips instead.

“Well! Now that we’re all settled, how about you get him cleaned up, Joon-ah, while I go see if I can get dinner going? How does kimchi fried rice sound to you, Jungkook? It’s, ah, kinda all we have at the moment.”

“Oh, but I — I’ve eaten already,” Jungkook protested, voice muffled by Namjoon wiping the washcloth over his grimy cheeks. Grit and slimy dirt came away with the damp cloth, eliciting a disgusted wince from both boys.

“You threw a lot of it up, though,” Hoseok pointed out lightly while Namjoon headed to the kitchen sink to rinse out the cloth. “How’s this: you get a little water and some of those pain meds in you, and I’ll set aside a portion for in case you start getting the munchies later?”

“No spice in his. I’m not convinced he hasn’t taken internal damage, so let’s not risk that kind of reaction,” Namjoon interjected with a frown at Jungkook’s injured torso. The boy recalled himself, flushed red, and yanked his shirt down for decency.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he said haltingly. “I… The… When I healed my, u-uh…” He fumbled for words while Namjoon and Hoseok stared. “It doesn’t…leave behind significant damage afterwards. Just stuff that’ll heal easy on its own, I guess.”

“Huh,” said Hoseok, shoving away the thoughts that reeled and clamored for his attention as he meandered into the kitchen. _Thud, thud, thud,_ came down the walls to block them out. _Thud, thud, thud_. He smiled. “That’s cool! Ah, so I found, like, these bags on the ground with you? I didn’t know if they were yours, but…”

“They are. It’s just some rice and barbeque…from a friend.” Jungkook assumed a quavery ghost of a smile, even as he looked at the water and pills in Hoseok’s hands with trepidation. “You can have one of the boxes if you’d like. As thanks. I’m really not that hungry.”

Hoseok gave him a warm look, heart melting just a little. “It’s appreciated, Jungkook. Really wasn’t lying to you when I said we don’t have much to eat here right now. Still, I’ll definitely set aside a little for you in that case. I’m not about to take all your food on top of everything you just went through.”

“Um…”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, sit up for me?”

Jungkook shifted but eventually managed to get himself in an upright position. Namjoon supported him with one hand as Hoseok handed him the painkillers, then the glass so he could swallow them. Even that seemed to exhaust the boy, and Namjoon murmured encouragement as he ran the washcloth over the boy’s nape. Jungkook shuddered; his hair clumped dark and sticky with dried blood, requiring two more trips to the sink to get most of it out. Hoseok patted his head, told him to rest up, and watched them from the corner of his eye as he headed into the kitchen again, this time to gather ingredients. He dug out a pan from the cabinet and turned on the stove. Poured oil, spooned kimchi in, and then stood pushing it around with chopsticks to stir-fry. Soon, the smell of cabbage and vinegar began to waft through the apartment. Returning to dump the washcloth in the garbage, Namjoon scrubbed his hands clean and squinted at the sizzling pan.

“Need any help?”

“Nope,” Hoseok replied cheerily. “Get outta my kitchen.”

Namjoon sputtered in offense and Hoseok laughed at his affronted face. However, he also swore that he heard the softest noise from out in the living room: a tiny giggle that was quickly smothered. Even so, the sound of Jungkook easing up, enough to _laugh_ , sent a wisp of warmth through Hoseok’s chest so that this time the bright smile came naturally as he cooked. Slowly but surely, the tension was easing away.

_Good. Keep it up._

“Jungkook-ah,” he called, pouring cold rice both from the fridge and the containers from Jungkook’s grocery bags into the pan. “Do you want some galbi with yours? I recommend it, it’s really good that way!”

But to his surprise, there was no answer.

“Jungkook-ah?”

Hoseok frowned and exchanged concerned looks with Namjoon, who was digging through the fridge in search for a beverage. The latter set down a near-empty carton of orange juice and was about to check when a low voice spoke.

“Hoseok. Namjoon. Who is this?”

Hoseok tensed. Utensils clattered and he darted out of the kitchen area to find Jungkook frozen on the couch. The young magician had drawn his legs against his chest in an attempt to curl into himself. His arms were half-raised in defense, his spine rigid. Huge doe-eyes stared unblinking at the man in the doorway, who stood motionless with one hand on the doorknob, one foot across the threshold.

Shit. _Shit_.

Yoongi’s face was blank, pale, almost eerie in its calmness. But Hoseok knew him well enough to spot the taut lines around his eyes, the hardness in the black of them. Right away he moved to stand by the couch, planting himself right beside Jungkook in Yoongi’s field of vision. He could see the boy trembling in his periphery — the kid was terrified, Hoseok realized, and fuck, _Hoseok_ had been afraid of _him_?

“Yoongi,” Hoseok began and was surprised but satisfied by the steadiness in his own voice. “This is Jungkook. Jungkook-ah, this is our roommate Yoongi-hyung. He’s our best friend, we’ve known him for years. He can act mean and tough but he’s a good guy, I promise.” Hoseok threw the older man a sharp, emphatic glance. “You can trust him.”

Yoongi pulled his mouth into a thin white line and you didn’t need to be a Namjoon-level genius to detect the displeasure he radiated. “Lemme just ask something,” he said in a quiet, quiet voice. He raised a finger to point first at Hoseok, then at Namjoon ducked partway behind the kitchen wall, and then his gaze flicked to Jungkook, albeit only briefly — but when it did, it was icy and wholly unwelcoming.

“Are you both _fucking idiots_?”

“Hyung, it’s not what you—” Hoseok started to protest. But the older man stepped inside and the door swung closed behind him. The corner of his mouth curled into a close-lipped snarl as he rounded on Hoseok. The younger boy ground his teeth and stood firm, which only seemed to infuriate the other further, even if Yoongi’s face remained cold and impassive. It didn’t fool Hoseok in the least.

But even as he knew what Yoongi was going to say, Hoseok also had no plans to back down from this.

“Another one, Hoseok? _Another one_? Did you learn absolutely nothing from last time, or maybe you have some death wish I don’t know about? Because at this rate you’re just _asking_ for it.”

“This is different!” Hoseok insisted and pretended the words didn’t cut deep into him. _Thud,_ went another wall: this time, to defend against the hurt prickling over his skin. _Thud, thud, thud_. To replace it, he summoned up the last dregs of his patience to insist, “Hyung, look, Minsung was a runaway. Jungkook is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” Yoongi spat. “I don’t want him here. Get him out, Hoseok, tell him sorry but he can’t stay because we’re not going to _let him_. I’ll be screwed a million times over before someone else gets a shot at you.” The dark of his eyes were wide: shocked, and angry, and suspicious.

(Scared.)

Hoseok leaned forward, gripped Yoongi’s shoulders with long fingers. They dug sharp and bony into his hands and the edges of his eyes melted sadly. He said, “Yoongi-hyung, please, just hear me out on this.”

“The last time I did, you almost died,” Yoongi hissed, nostrils flaring. “If I hadn’t been awake, if I hadn’t heard him sneaking around, if Namjoon wasn’t _home_ that night… Fuck, Hoseok, you had to go to the hospital! What are you thinking?!”

“Jungkook won’t hurt me,” Hoseok snapped back, and this time an ember of anger twisted through his bones when Yoongi sneered. His face tightened and he stepped closer. “Jungkook-ah won’t hurt any of us. Hyung, he’s not like Minsung. He’s hurt bad, and he needs our help.”

“Hyung…” Namjoon tried to cut in, but Yoongi ignored him.

“Then hand him off to the police! Let the authorities deal with him, because for fuck’s sake, you can’t take in every stray you find on the street, Hoseok. You can’t save them all, that’s not how the world _works_. There are a shit ton of kids out there like Minsung who see you and how you’re too sweet and open and motherfucking gullible to realize they’ll take advantage of all that!”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid!”

“The way you act, I wonder sometimes!”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

“Enough! That’s enough, both of you!” Namjoon boomed and shoved the snarling men apart. Hoseok stumbled backwards so that his legs banged into the couch, where Jungkook curled into a tighter ball. Dark eyes flicked between the three men nervously. The wetness in them matched that of Hoseok’s, except his tears stemmed from outrage, not bewilderment. He inhaled shakily and glared at Yoongi, who bore a stubborn set to his jaw even as he averted his face. Namjoon saw this and sighed.

“Hyung.” Yoongi glowered at him. Namjoon held up his hands and continued, “Hoseok-ah’s telling the truth. We met Jungkook earlier this afternoon. He was being harassed and we stepped in to help him out. Then about an hour ago, we found him in an alleyway after he got mugged. He’s not… He’s safe, okay? I swear it.”

“You swore the same thing about the other kid,” Yoongi said with a dark note. “If I could blame anyone else aside from myself for what happened that night, I’d blame you.”

Hoseok’s eyes widened while Namjoon jolted back as if Yoongi had physically struck him. Then his heart dropped like a rock when he saw how Namjoon’s shoulders began to tremble, how he averted his eyes and stammered, breathing hard. Bitterness swelled in his mouth and Hoseok thought with utmost harshness, _Min Yoongi, you fucking know_ better.

But he didn’t say it aloud. Because Yoongi’s eyes flashed ( _shock disbelief regretregretregret_ ) and Hoseok knew right away that he didn’t need to.

Yoongi swallowed hard, and his eyes darted to Jungkook again. Behind him, Hoseok heard the boy’s breath hitch. He looked to find Jungkook pinned by that black gaze, staring back and not daring to move. Yoongi saw this and smiled, although it came out looking more as if he wanted to grimace.

“So unless the two of you can come up with legitimate proof that he’s so harmless,” Yoongi spoke the word so that it dripped sarcasm, “he’s leaving.”

Hoseok cast Namjoon a frantic expression that the young man ( _shock disbelief hurthurthurt_ ) mirrored. What to do now — Hoseok hated to admit it, but Yoongi wasn’t entirely wrong: other than the fact that he was young, a student, and flightier than a rabbit (aside from, you know, the whole magic issue), they really knew nothing about Jungkook. Where he lived, how old he was and — shit — whether he had family out there searching for him. Hell, they didn’t even know the kid’s last name. Hoseok let out a silent swear; so even if they did try and pull the magician card on Yoongi, it was possible that that wouldn’t solve things at all.

Because honestly, what reassurance did they have that Jungkook wasn’t all the more dangerous for it?

Nonetheless, Hoseok opened his mouth to defend him. But the voice that piped up wasn’t his.

“I can use magic.”

From where he stood, Hoseok had a clear view of the way Yoongi’s pupils blew open. After a long and tense silence, in a tone of utter incredulity, the man exhaled, “What?”

Jungkook lifted his head. His face was drawn, too worn and weary for the youth in his features. But something in the earth-brown of his irises held unwavering yet. Under the yellowed lights of the living room, they glinted round the edges, shone like polished stones or stars. Hoseok felt them steal the breath from his lips and his heart quivered: hopeful. Doubtful. Both at once.

“I can use magic,” Jungkook repeated. “And…And I think I’d like to trust you with that.”

 

 

There was a clock on the wall. _10:03 PM_.

 

* * *

Green. The adjacent building glowed a dirty shade of it, amber streetlights illuminating vert-painted concrete. Some of the newer edifices had electrical signs above their entrances, from which neon light streamed in rays of sickly mint across the asphalt. Teal garbage bags rotted beside lime dumpsters. From the next street over, Jimin could smell sweat, old sex and desperation; he turned the corner and saw through gaping pupils the jade of ten-thousand-won bills, exchanged between faceless figures that got into a car together and drove off.

In black glass windows, in the distorted reflections on trash bins, Jimin saw his own eyes. The irises: gold-flecked, immense and gaping. Drowning his sclera in green.

His hand lashed out and the metal lid clanged to the ground, deafening. The unicorn turned to blink at him, slowly.

“Don’t.” Jimin shut his cat-eyes and pressed his fingers into the corners until they stung. “I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”

The unicorn’s breath was sweet as he sighed. Jimin opened his eyes, peered around, tried to make sense of these surroundings. Cramped buildings, street-lamps, a residential area, not to mention few who dared to be out and about: they’d neared the neighborhood of Wonhyoro- _i_ -dong, it seemed. So where they were was not the issue. It was just where they were going that Jimin found himself at a loss.

“How big is this city? Seoul?” asked the unicorn. “How far shall we have to go?” Jimin stiffened when he realized how the great beast’s snow-scent swirled around him, encasing him in a gentle warmth. The tender sensation felt better than a full lifetime of embraces, and he forced himself to move ahead so that he wouldn’t reach out for it.

“Bigger than we can wander in one night,” he said. “And that’s not taking into account the busier neighborhoods, districts. At least here we can move around relatively free. The perks of being poorer than dirt, I guess.” Jimin barked out a sardonic laugh, ran a hand down his face. “Fuck. _Fuck_. Where can he be?”

The unicorn didn’t reply, and Jimin was glad. He ran over his mental map again, trying to figure out where Jungkook might’ve gone and where they were most likely to run across him. It was getting late. Maybe Jungkook had already returned to the apartment? Should they head back? But Jimin gnawed on his lip at the thought; at the shame and mind-wracking guilt that loomed over him whenever he imagined the expression on Jungkook’s face when he found out that Jimin had gotten him evicted. It worsened when Jimin remembered the thoughts, the _wishes_ he’d been entertaining before then and he just wanted to _laugh_. Ahead, a feral cat rooted through the garbage for scraps of old meat and rinds. When he approached, it shot up and stared at him, slit-eyes hard and glittering. Then it saw the unicorn and jumped in surprise before scampering off with a ragged meow. Jimin paid it no mind.

 _You’re not friends_ , spat something dark and cruel from the corner of his mind. _He barely even knows you, and now you’ve_ ruined _it. Like always, like you always_ do. _Just leave it, Jimin, leave it._

“Stop,” Jimin hissed, digging sharp nails into his wrist and burying his face into the heel of one hand. “Stop, stop it.”

 _You ruin everything,_ the voice continued to shrill, except now it was no longer his own and now Jimin knew that he was no longer thinking but remembering what he just wanted to forget. No. No. He didn’t want to. Jimin clenched his teeth until they ached and snarled against the memories that arose. The accusations, the blame, the blistering heat and sun and car seat under his thighs and it’s cold yet so so so hot and _get out you worthless piece of shit getoutgetoutgetout_ —

“You are bleeding.”

Jimin gasped and let go of his arm. Blood welled in a row of marks where he’d sunk his fingernails too deep. Jimin glared at them with wet eyes and then raised his arm to suck on the small wounds. They stung; his own blood was bitter as it slid down his throat.

“I’m fine,” he muttered in response to the unicorn’s silent gaze. “Just leave it.”

The creature’s ears flicked. His eyes were too wise for Jimin to bear. “You are mortal yet,” he said with a thoughtful note. “You can lie.”

Jimin sneered and dropped his arm. “Let’s keep moving,” he said. The taste of blood filled his mouth. The smell filled his nose, made his head spin a lazy circle. “I just want to find—”

He stopped.

Froze.

The smell of blood filled his nose and  _n_ _o, no, nonononono—_

Jimin broke into a wild run. The cut soles of his feet stung on the concrete but he didn’t slow, numb to the pain, fueled by shock and icy panic. Jungkook smelled soft, warm, and now that Jimin could recognize it the wisp of his blood in the air cracked through the cold autumn night like a beacon of fire. Nausea flipped Jimin’s empty stomach and threatened to make him sick. He had a faint awareness of the unicorn’s hooves ringing silver behind him, following close behind but he didn’t care, he didn’t _care_. Nothing in the world existed except the growing stench of blood and the images that flashed behind his eyes ( _J_ _ungkook shocked by the jolt of powerful magic within a mere cat, Jungkook awed by a unicorn, Jungkook surprised, Jungkook shy, Jungkook_ dead _and_ bleeding _and_ yourfaultyourfaultallyourfault). And Jimin would never be able to thank him. He’d never be able to apologize, never have anyone else call him _hyung_ ever again.

He turned the corner out of the alleyway and almost crashed into a pile of trash cans in his haste. Four men walking down the street spun around in surprise and Jimin scrambled to a screeching halt, ribs heaving as he scanned their faces in desperate hope. His feet stung. Bleeding again.

But no. Jungkook wasn’t here. Jungkook wasn’t any of these men and Jimin screamed in silence, tempted to turn and smash his fist against the wall. Where was he, _where was he_ , things weren’t safe, were never _safe_ at night and anything could have happened to him, except—!

Except.

Except the smell of Jungkook’s blood was coming from one of the men.

Stained on his dirty shirt.

And all of a sudden Jimin felt very, very calm.

“Where is he?” he demanded in a quiet, even tone, and even in the darkness, his slitted eyes didn’t miss how the men immediately shot each other unreadable looks.

“Where is who?” demanded one man in a growly voice. Jimin snickered to himself: growling like dogs, pitted against a single stray cat. Oh, the irony. “Who the hell’re you, kid?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jimin warned and stepped closer. A streetlight cast ugly yellow light over his face, over the barely-concealed rage simmering along his features. “Answer me. Where. Is. My friend.”

“What the fuck?” he heard another one of them mutter, smelled the abrupt nervousness that seeped from the man’s pores. “Look at his eyes, man, what the _fuck_.”

Jimin’s pupils had shrunk to black slashes under the streetlight; his overlarge irises were lit hot and simmering bottle-green. The gold in them glinted, shreds of lightning. He had no doubt in his mind how animalistic he must look. But for once, Jimin didn’t give a _damn_.

The tension sparking between him and the four men broke when the guy with Jungkook’s blood on him sneered. “Don’t know who you’re looking for, kid, but you’ve got the wrong guys,” he said, a blatant lie. “Now scram before you get in trouble.”

Jimin flared his nostrils and gave the man a quick once-over. Cat-eyes flitted across the older man’s bruised face, shoulders, and bloodied shirt collar before landing on the front of his pants pockets, and what Jimin saw there made him curl his lip in furious triumph.

“That wallet,” he said lowly. “It’s _not yours_.”

He _lunged_.

The man shrieked in shock and pain when Jimin tore his nails into soft cheeks and eyes. The shapeshifter’s face blazed. With vicious rage, he scrabbled crisscrossed gashes up and down and sideways that five-o’clock shadow. Stubble scraped his fingertips raw, and blood slicked them red before flailing limbs caught him in the chest and rammed him backwards. Jimin managed to snatch the wallet from the man’s pocket as he staggered back, right on time to see a blow coming fast from one of the other three. Instinct propelled his arms to shoot up and block his face, but the force of the punch still knocked him to the ground so hard that his ears rang with the _smack_ of his head against pavement. There was a moment where Jimin could see nothing but stars and twirling blackness. The leather of Jungkook’s wallet was warm, and crusted dark.

Shouts rang out. Rough hands seized his hair and wrists, tight enough to crush bruises into the flesh. But Jimin clutched the wallet to his throat as though it were a lifeline; he kicked and bit like a wildcat at the three men trying to pin him down or wrench back the wallet. Obscenities leapt from his lips to burst in their faces, firecrackers. All his fear and frustration blew up, so that he thrashed and shrieked while the injured man howled, “You son of a _bitch!_ I’m gonna motherfucking kill you, you hear me?! You’re fucking _dead!_ ”

Jimin spat at him and earned a hard slap across the face. The air swirled dense with jeers and the stench of rust and sweat. Blood filled his mouth, littered his attackers’ hands with crescent bite marks. He latched his teeth into Jungkook’s leather wallet, both to keep it safe from snatching hands, and to muffle his shouts as they ripped at his hair and clothes. However, a thick fist bashed against his cheekbone and his teeth tore shallow lines across the leather as the blow snapped his head sideways. Then came another punch, jarring through his jawbone, and this time Jimin was unable to hold back a faint cry of pain.

The whole world ceased turning.

Then the next moment, the hands disappeared, yells of anger turned to shock and confusion, and Jimin opened his eyes to see the unicorn on fire.

His shining white body had taken on the blinding brightness of a snowstorm. Those dark and ageless eyes smoldered like coals. His horn blazed hotter than a bolt of lightning. Sharp hooves roared down the pavement and rang the steely song of knives. The unicorn surged forward with a resonant bellow that thrummed down Jimin’s spine, making him think of fairytale battles, all dragons and manticores and wild riddle-beasts. Like grains of sand before a foaming wave, the men scattered before the unicorn, blundering and terrified wherever he drove them with that mercury horn. Jimin watched, bloody mouth agape.

The air stank now of magic: boiling and bitter.

Jimin’s ears were still ringing when the unicorn returned. He knelt, hunched over, panting, wading through a sea of dizzy aches as bird-bone legs came into view. Strange how the unicorn could seem like such a frail creature — dainty and gleaming white — yet at the same time, he was bigger than anything Jimin had ever seen, like a looming marble statue, or a blizzard given solid form. He was warm and cold and lovely and frightening, and Jimin opened his mouth before he even realized what he was doing.

“Thank you.”

The unicorn peered down at him, eyes round and liquid, deep-deep-deeper than the sea. The light of him had dimmed, though still he shone and with no less wondrousness. An itch scritch-scratched at Jimin’s palms but he ignored them, wrapped them around Jungkook’s wallet instead and rose onto wobbly legs. He was tired — so very tired — but they were so close now and so he couldn’t give up yet. Not. Yet.

Jimin lifted the thin leather wallet to his face, eyes falling shut and brow furrowing as he inhaled once, twice. In a flash Jungkook’s scent came rushing over his senses (warm, gentle, candleflames and cotton) and Jimin drew the wallet away to exhale in a humongous rush, as if to empty his lungs of all their air. Then he drew another breath, and then slit-pupil eyes shot open. Green and gold sparked.

“I found him.” Jimin turned his feet in the direction Jungkook’s scent trail led, and looked back at the unicorn. He hesitated, then quietly said, “Follow me.”

* * *

Dinner was an awkward affair, to say the least.

Jungkook ached all over. Gauze pulled taut over his bruises, and his lower lip throbbed with every tap of his heartbeat. He hadn’t showered yet, either, so he stank of alleyway grime and trash — a fact that burned him alive in embarrassment as he stretched across a total stranger’s couch. Then it flared into an almost painful amount when his stomach rumbled, and Namjoon heard it, and suddenly Jungkook found himself gently seated at one end of the table with a plate of kimchi fried rice before him — right across one fuming, mistrustful Min Yoongi.

Right. Awkward.

Likewise, conversation was stilted and uncertain. Hoseok made valiant attempts to coax the other three to ease in their stiff seats, to unwind and talk about everything and nothing just as he did: tossing out random stories, one after another, as well as jokes and fun facts and even celebrity gossip. Anything he could seem to pour out went into the bottomless glass that was the air hanging over their heads, heavy and ringing. Jungkook appreciated the efforts, fruitless as they turned out to be.

“—and so the main lead has to win the girl’s heart now, right?” Hoseok was chattering away. “But the problem is because he used to be a water spirit, he has to avoid getting doused in water and that’s an _issue_ because, get this, the girl he likes lives literally _right beside the sea_ so that’s where the comedy factor comes into play for the show. Heck, the first episode ends with him almost falling right into the ocean because he slips trying to get up to the beach, almost gave me a heart attack! And the actor is sososo handsome, oh man, haha, if you guys could’ve seen how Naver was _exploding_ over him—”

“Namjoon-ah.”

Jungkook and Namjoon started at the abrupt, gravelly sound of Yoongi’s voice. Hoseok snapped his jaw shut. He looked at his hyung, surprised but expectant as well, somehow. Yoongi scratched a circle into his paper plate, the fork clutched stiffly in his left hand. Tired shadows grayed the skin under his eyes. Jungkook didn’t know whether he truly could trust Yoongi or not, no matter how Hoseok may reassure him. But as Yoongi lifted his head to reveal a dull, remorseful gaze to Namjoon, who stared back without expression, Jungkook swallowed and averted his own eyes. He shouldn’t be here. Whatever was happening in this moment, he didn’t _belong_.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi murmured, “for what I said earlier. I didn’t… I didn’t mean it, really. Hoseok would be dead right now if you hadn’t stayed home that night. I know that, and I don’t blame you for anything. I swear. I’m sorry.”

Silence stretched out between the four of them until it quaked under the pressure. Jungkook tensed, prepared for the worst. So it was a gigantic relief when Namjoon managed a quavery but sincere smile and put a hand on the eldest boy’s arm. He squeezed Yoongi’s bicep, gentle.

“I know, hyung,” he said, and Yoongi returned a wan smile. His eyes shifted to Hoseok, then flicked down to the table.

“You too, Hoseok-ah. I’m sorry that I…called you stupid.”

“Ah, well, _technically_ you didn’t. I mean, obviously it was very much implied but you didn’t outright say those exact words with that exact mouth—”

“Hoseok,” Yoongi said, scowling in exasperation now. “I’m trying to _apologize to you_.”

Hoseok grinned wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “And I forgive you,” he said with a certain warmth flickering along the edges of his voice as he leaned forward to take Yoongi’s curled left hand in his. “Even though you’re an absolute ass.”

“Ha. Yet somehow you still care.”

“Yep!”

Jungkook cast his eyes between the three older boys: baffled, but nonetheless relieved to find the strained atmosphere deflating into something softer, far kinder. Rather than a hard and inexplicable expression, Namjoon was full-on dimpling now. Hoseok’s cheerfulness seemed much more genuine than before. Even Yoongi looked more relaxed, arms slack on the table, leaning back in his chair to look at his best friends with vaguely-concealed fondness. Unfortunately, as Jungkook ogled, Namjoon chose that very moment to turn and meet his gaze. Jungkook almost choked on a mouthful of rice under the attention, and the older boy narrowed his eyes before piping up.

“Hyung, you should apologize to Jungkook, too.” Namjoon glanced sideways to where Yoongi had gone rigid in his seat. Quietly, he added, “At least out of courtesy, hyung. Come on…”

Yoongi mashed his lips together. He turned his face away, pointedly not looking in Jungkook’s direction. Which was fine — Jungkook was grateful enough already for Hoseok and Namjoon’s help. So even if Yoongi rejected him, even if the suspicion hurt a small place somewhere deep inside him, he couldn’t let it bother him. Jungkook swallowed another dry bite of rice and kimchi, then put down his fork. He had just opened his mouth to excuse himself when Yoongi spoke up.

“Magic, huh.” His voice grated, embedded with an odd bitterness that Jungkook couldn’t make sense of. “That’s quite the story you’ve come up with, kid.”

Jungkook frowned, unable to help the defensiveness that flared through his bones. “It’s the truth,” he shot back. Yoongi’s face twisted and he let out a derisive little snort.

“Yeah, so you say. So, how about this: show us a little sorcery, and then I’ll consider whether you’re trustworthy or not. Deal?”

“Deal!” Jungkook snapped without thinking. Yoongi’s eyebrows darted up into his hairline, however, and the surprise in the older boy’s face brought Jungkook up short. Then he backtracked, thought over his response, and promptly went pale upon the realization of what he’d just agreed to. Oh. _Shit._

But the other two perked up at the prospect of witnessing more magic. “Yes, yes, please!” Hoseok chirped, swiping the paper plates aside with a massive grin (regardless of Namjoon’s cry of protest: _“Hey, I’m still eating!”_ ). “It wasn’t under the best circumstances the first time, but I really want to see you do your thing. That is, if it’s okay? Can Joon and I watch?”

“Uh,” Jungkook stammered. He could feel Yoongi’s eyes boring into his head and a cold sweat broke out across his nape. “I…guess? Um, can I borrow a deck of cards?”

“Yeah, I have one in my room. Wait just a sec!”

Namjoon hurried into his room, then dashed back out again with a pack of playing cards in hand. Clearly Hoseok was not the only one excited, eager, and even a little nervous to see what Jungkook could do. Yoongi didn’t say a word, but he watched Jungkook take out the cards and begin to clumsily shuffle them with such a piercing gaze, Jungkook could feel his eyes puncture holes right through him. He gulped, took a deep breath, and began to deal.

The tricks were… Well, they went better than usual, not that that was saying much. Jungkook ran through his usual routine for busking. He made the numbers vanish and reappear, passed a handful of cards between his palms to reveal a single jack, and pretended to cough up all the spades into his empty hands. The deck danced along his fingers, shuffling between and over his fingers in a show of eerie dexterity. Namjoon and Hoseok were a receptive audience, especially as the latter applauded and hooted and cheered at all the right moments. The tops of Jungkook’s ears turned red from the attention and he pressed his lips together to conceal a smile.

But at one point, he glanced up to gauge Yoongi’s reaction since the man had remained silent throughout the entire act, and Jungkook startled to find disappointment draped like a ghost over Yoongi’s face. The older boy sat motionless, eyes frozen and downcast. He wasn’t impressed, not in the least. In fact, none of them were and the realization hit Jungkook worse than a bucket of icy water. Hoseok _ooh_ ’d and _aah_ ’d with all the cheer of a child’s parent, and Namjoon smiled and clapped for each successful trick. But there was no wonder. No awe. Jungkook sat at their table with nothing but cheap parlor tricks on hand and the claim that this — _this_ — was his _real magic_. Shame crashed over his head like a sledgehammer and scalded his face scarlet. Hastily, Jungkook stopped the current trick (making the cards fly from one hand to another) mid-air to slap the cards down onto the table. The wooden _smack_ rang through the air, heavy and hollow.

“There,” he muttered, smoldering in humiliation. “That’s— That’s all.”

Namjoon beamed at him. “That was cool!” he said, and the honesty in his voice did help Jungkook feel a tiny bit better. He managed a smile back, though it faded quickly when Yoongi turned away with a hard, sad look. “You’re really good at this.”

Jungkook shrugged. “I practice a lot,” he replied. Hoseok hummed noncommittally and collected the cards into both hands to shuffle them, whistling with cheer. But then Yoongi shoved away from the table, and Hoseok froze. Three pairs of wide eyes blinked up at the man. He didn’t meet any of their gazes, glaring at the farthest wall instead.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, words thumping to the floor like bricks. “Don’t wake me up.”

“Wait, what?” Namjoon blinked after him as Yoongi started for the hallway. “Hyung, why? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Joon. I’m tired, that’s all. I want to go to sleep.”

“But what about work? I know you just got off a double shift today, but you still have to go back in, like, an hour.”

Yoongi halted in his tracks but didn’t turn. A long pause descended before an angry note crept into his voice as he snapped, “Then I’ll call in sick, ask for a break. I just don’t want to work tonight, all right? I don’t feel up for it.”

“That’s fine, hyung,” rolled out Hoseok’s voice, soothing as a balm. “You don’t have to. You did just have your first double shift in forever, that must’ve taken a toll. I don’t think you gotta go to work tonight. Get some rest, hyung.”

Yoongi inhaled unsteadily. Rubbed his face with his sleeve. His eyes were raw and red when he turned back around, although Jungkook saw no trace of tears in them, only frustration and something dangerously akin to self-loathing. The sharpness in them grew when he looked at Jungkook.

“I know who you are,” Yoongi spat. “Zhou Mi told me about a kid who busks in the square with card tricks and shit. You’re harmless. You’re pathetic, and a fucking liar, but you’re harmless. Do whatever you want.”

That last part was aimed at his roommates, who stared after him as he stormed out of the kitchen and down the hallway, where a door slammed soon after. Hoseok released a long, long sigh and then turned to Jungkook with a tentative smile.

“Ah,” he said. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Jungkook grimaced.

In the end, they decided that they should all head to bed. Namjoon gave Jungkook a spare toothbrush to brush his teeth and clean up, then lent him a change of clothes for the night. “Just some sweatpants and an old shirt of mine,” he reassured when Jungkook attempted to refuse. “These will be a lot comfier to sleep in than what you have on, I think.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Jungkook relented. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, stricken and unsure what to make of all the kindness. “I don’t know how I can make this up to you.”

Namjoon laughed at that. He said, “Here’s an idea: don’t walk around late at night. That’ll be a great start.”

Jungkook grinned a little. Hoseok gave him another washcloth and facial cleanser to wipe down his grimy body, so he felt a little better about wearing Namjoon’s clothes in such a filthy state. The outfit was big on him. The shirt smelled faintly of must, while the sweatpants drooped on his hips, but they were fresh and clean and Jungkook felt better already. His battered body still ached, though, which Hoseok quickly caught onto. Jungkook flushed and mumbled protests as Hoseok tottered around the living room plumping up pillows and pulling out their softest blankets, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

“If you need anything,” said Hoseok, “don’t hesitate to ask, okay? I’ll sleep in the bedroom with Yoongi-hyung so feel free to barge in anytime. Don’t be scared about Yoongi, I’ll handle any grumpiness on his part.” Then he’d patted Jungkook’s head and leaned forward, face open and friendly. He said, “I know you guys got off on the wrong start, but…hyung really is a good guy. I’m positive that if you two get to know each other, you’ll get along right away.”

Jungkook was much less sure about that. But both Hoseok and Namjoon had been so good to him, so welcoming, that he thought maybe he could be willing to give their roommate the benefit of the doubt, too. Hoseok left on one of the kitchen lights for him, resulting in a cozy dimness cast into the living room where Jungkook lay. The older boy paused in the entryway to the hall for a moment to give Jungkook a long, ponderous look. Underneath the electric lightbulbs, his hair gleamed like embers.

“Good night, Jungkook.”

“Night, hyung,” Jungkook replied. “Thanks for everything, really.”

Hoseok just smiled before vanishing into the dark.

Thus began a long, restless night. Despite the tiredness throbbing along his veins, Jungkook found that he couldn’t fall asleep. His cheek smushed against the couch arm and he curled as much as he could without bothering his bruises, eyes flickering around the shadowy room. The blinds were drawn tight; errant wind whistled against the glass of the balcony door. The apartment still smelled like kimchi and oily rice. Jungkook tucked the blanket over his chin and winced at the fact he’d shown them card tricks. _Card tricks._ Like a party magician, and doubly embarrassing after all the claims he’d made about his magic. No wonder Yoongi didn’t like him.

Hours snuck by. Jungkook’s eyelids began to droop but his mind continued to loop endless circles. His thoughts meandered to Jimin and the unicorn. Worry frothed over his brain as he realized with a jolt: were they okay? Were they safe? Had they eaten yet? He hoped with all his heart that they weren’t worried about him, and wished for the umpteenth time that Jimin owned a cell phone so he could call and reassure him everything was fine. Speaking of which… Did the men take his phone? _Shit_ — he’d have to get a new one, then, too. Fuck it all. His body sagged and a feeling of sheer uselessness lapped at his skin, insidious, hissing mockery. Jungkook closed his eyes and let himself drift inches above it, slipping on the precarious edge.

But then, a noise like dragging fingernails scratched through his ears and Jungkook’s eyes flew wide open.

Jungkook bolted upright, wincing at how the abrupt movement hurt. But he ignored the ache in his belly and sat riveted on the balcony door, unblinking. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs. There it came again: _scrrrrrrtch, scrtch-scrtch._ Goosebumps prickled down Jungkook’s arms. A memory dashed through his brain: one of a statue-still creature, black and shadowy, too many eyes and mouths and hands for him to comprehend. What if—

What if it had _followed him here?_

Jungkook pulled in a reedy gasp and the scratching sound intensified, as if desperate. No, no, no, that didn’t make sense. Surely it wouldn’t have waited until the others were asleep to…? But no. Jungkook went cold. That did make sense, sick as it was.

_What should I do?_

More scratching on the door glass, this time frantic and scrabbling, and Jungkook smothered a whimper in his hand. Maybe he could go get— _Nonono_ , no, he could _not_ get Namjoon and Hoseok involved. Not even Yoongi deserved to be dragged into this. The three were nothing but innocent bystanders and this was Jungkook’s problem: another trouble to carry atop his faulty magic, his burdens and secrets. So, slowly, with utmost reluctance alongside caution, he slid out of the couch and half-crawled, half-crept his way over to the balcony. The dim outline of a large silhouette moved back and forth over the blinds, illuminated by yellow street-lamplight. Jungkook extended a trembling hand and began to counting to five.

One. Two. Three. Four.

“ _Meoww!_ ”

Jungkook’s mind blinked out on the five. He snapped forward and jerked open the blinds.

Outside, it was dark, illuminated just faintly by the moon and the streetlights scattered along the main road. But clear as day, Jungkook could see two eyes glowing greenish on the balcony deck, attached to a long feline shadow. His heart leapt up to his throat and his eyes suddenly became moist, salt stinging them sharp. Words stuck in his throat, then tumbled out in a heap.

“Hyung, h-hyung—”

Cat-eyes stared at him, and then in the next moment there was no longer a near-black cat but a full-grown, lithe and long-limbed boy flattening himself against the glass. Those same eyes still glowed eerily, light reflecting off the backs of that layer behind cats’ retinas — but now, they were also round with an absolute and joyous relief. Jungkook almost let out a sob at the sight of the familiar boy, and the shapeshifter waved a frantic gesture towards the street.

“Do you want to meet me down there?”

Despite his low voice, Jimin could evidently hear him; the shapeshifter nodded and then peeked around Jungkook with a nervous expression, apparently checking to ensure the younger boy was alone. He turned back and slowly, so Jungkook could understand, pink lips mouthed: _Side street. Meet me there._

Jimin waited for Jungkook to nod his understanding, and with that, pulled his second form on so that by the next blink Jungkook was staring at a cat again. The animal pounced onto the balcony rail, paused, then began its steady descent to the ground. Jungkook grabbed his coat where it hung over a chair, yanking his arms through the sleeves, then kicked on his shoes without bothering with the laces. As he hurried out, however, Jungkook didn’t notice the movement in the hallway — nor did he see the drawn, worried face that appeared there after he left.

* * *

“Jungkook! Jungkook, here, here!”

It was Jimin. It was Jimin, and the unicorn behind him, and Jungkook almost got knocked over by the force with which the older boy barreled straight into him. Wiry arms latched around his chest and squeezed, desperate and elated. Jungkook hugged him back as tight as possible. A few paces back, the unicorn gazed upon them contemplatively; the wind shimmered through his mane while his body caught and reflected light like a moon on earth. He stood close enough that Jungkook could smell lilacs and snow, and if he were clearer-minded, perhaps he would’ve wondered why the unicorn was there at all. But Jimin was shouting into his chest and that distracted his attention away from the mythical beast. It took Jungkook a moment to understand the muffled words, but once he did, Jungkook couldn’t help the wheezy laugh that burst from him.

“I don’t believe this, I don’t believe, you’re such a little shit! You had me worried half to death, you freaking _brat!_ My fur’s got gray hairs for years because of you! Who’s gonna take responsibility for that, huh?!”

“Ow, hyung,” Jungkook whined when Jimin put pressure on a sore spot over his sternum. At once the embrace vanished, replaced by the shapeshifter’s panicked face and hovering hands.

“Shit, sorry. Are you okay?” Jimin asked. His eyes were wide and damp; barely any white could be seen, swallowed up by irises that continued to gleam bright in the dark. “Jungkook, you smell like blood, what did they do to you? What the— You have fucking panda eyes! What the hell did they _do to you!_ ”

“Hyung, calm down, I’m okay! I’m fine,” Jungkook tried to tell him. But Jimin wasn’t listening anymore. He frantically pawed at Jungkook, checking him over before visibly paling, then going red when he found the bruises under Jungkook’s shirt. White teeth glistened as he snarled.

“I should’ve taken out an eye,” he spat. A feline growl rumbled through his chest until his voice turned sibilant, bordered on an actual hiss. “He got off way too fucking easy, that bastard.”

Jungkook paused at that. He took a double-take at the older boy and made a horrified noise upon realizing the state of Jimin’s face. “Hyung, what— Don’t tell me you two ran into them?!”

“Oh, trust me, they’re _way_ worse off than I am. Dunno if you can believe it, but the unicorn gave them a pretty good scare, too.” Jimin laughed curtly, eyes sparkling bright despite the bruises that bloomed under them and by the corner of his mouth. Jungkook’s mouth fell open in shock. Jimin and the unicorn had found his attackers and then _faced off_ with them?

“I… Why would… How did you even _know_?”

Jimin’s face shuttered closed, the green of his eyes darkening into smoky emerald. The gold in them dulled. The unicorn whickered quietly.

“He didn’t,” spoke the moon-white creature. “He only knew because he tracked you down. Caught scent of your blood and followed it straight to them.”

“Mm-hm! And after that—” A smile slid across cupid’s-bow lips and Jimin pulled a flat brown object from his pocket. “I stole _this_ off of them, and tracked your scent right back to the place where they attacked you, and where these people took you. It took me longer than it should’ve, but I did it. I found you.”

Jungkook recognized his wallet where Jimin was brandishing it through the air. The leather was stained and edged with blood…and was that a bite mark on it? Still, he took it from Jimin’s outstretched hand with heartfelt thanks. As expected, all the money inside had disappeared, but his student ID cards were intact and Jungkook’s legs nearly gave out under his relief.

“Thanks, hyung. I would’ve… I can’t afford to lose these. Thanks.”

Jimin sniffed and raised his chin. “You’re _welcome._  I almost had a heart attack, y’know. When I got to the…the alleyway…” His voice faltered then, if only for a moment before steeling once more. “I smelled so much blood…I almost thought for sure you’d died.”

Jungkook felt some far-down, central part of his heart melt and run. Warmth poured down to his very fingertips at the genuine worry rampant in Jimin’s face and body language, regardless of the bravado in his words. It had been so long since anyone else had looked at Jungkook with that kind of concern — with that kind of _caring_. Bruised hands reached for the tense line that was the shapeshifter’s shoulders. Jungkook kneaded them gently, trying to get them to soften and curve. He said, “I’m sorry I made you worry, hyung. I’m fine now, really I am. Thanks for looking for me. And thank you,” he said to the unicorn, “for helping him.”

The unicorn didn’t respond, but he did give Jungkook a long-lashed stare that seemed kindlier than usual around the dip of his eyes. The boy felt a cresting wave of heat rise within his chest, foamy between his clavicles, and salt-sweet in his throat. “You know,” he said, “don’t you? I had it, if only for a second — or it had me. Can you feel it on me, what I did?”

“I can,” the unicorn said. He stepped in and bent his nose close to Jungkook’s head, breath stirring the boy’s dark hair. The gemstone curves of that horn glistered and winked under the light. “And it was true magic, I know.”

“Just for a second,” Jungkook echoed, a bitter taste spreading across his tongue. “But I couldn’t hold it.”

“No, Jungkook-ah. You did great.” Jimin smiled, cheeks pinking, cat-eyes gleaming wet along the eyelashes. He rested a hand on Jungkook’s equally-battered face and spoke in a gentle voice, “I know we’ve technically only just met, like, a day ago…but I’m glad you’re okay, Jungkook.” He pushed Jungkook’s bangs back and then grinned. “You’re a brat, but I’m happy I met you.”

“Wow, rude,” Jungkook shot back. A beat — then they both broke into peals of wheezy, giddy laughter. Neither of them could stop; Jungkook noticed with a grin that Jimin all but threw his body across the road as he laughed, hand slapped over his mouth, eyes scrunched up into crescents.

Then he also noticed that Jimin’s feet were bare and bloody, and Jungkook stopped laughing.

“Hyung, what happened to your feet? Did you lose your shoes?”

Jimin blinked, taken aback, then looked down and startled with a surprised little, “ _Oh._ ” Jungkook guffawed, incredulous. Jimin’s feet were caked in dirt and grime, with a trickle of what appeared to be bloodstains between his toes. This didn’t look like the sort of thing that would warrant just an _Oh_. Jimin flexed his toes and shrugged. His smile when it appeared now seemed awkward at the corners.

“I was in a hurry. I was freaking out… Wasn’t paying attention.”

Jungkook shook his head and knelt to get a better look. Little streaks of red marked the pavement around Jimin’s feet. “Geez, hyung,” he said with an anxious note. “Did you step on a piece of glass or something? This honestly looks serious.”

“Jungkookie, I’ll live. It’s just a few small cuts,” said Jimin with a shaky laugh. He backed out of Jungkook’s reach, glanced aside. “It’s nothing I can’t handle, okay?”

“Still,” Jungkook said, “I think it’d better if we got someone to look at it. Come on, let’s go back up and then I can get Namjoon-hyung or Hoseok-hyung to help you.”

Jimin stiffened. “Jungkook—”

“It’s okay, hyung. They’re really nice, all of them! Their roommate doesn’t trust me, but, like, it’s nothing I can’t understand. They were kind to me anyway.”

A shudder wracked Jimin’s body. He wrapped his arms around himself as if cold (which he probably was, Jungkook realized when he saw that Jimin had on but sweatpants and one of his overlarge T-shirts) and muttered, “I can’t. You don’t understand, you were different. The first time we met, I knew you had magic and that’s why I decided to approach you in the gallery, otherwise I never would’ve even _bothered_. I’m no good with strangers — with _humans_ , Jungkook.”

Jungkook chewed the inside of his cheek and bent so they were eye-to-eye. “All right, I get it. I do,” he said. “But at least…just let them patch you up, so your feet don’t get infected? Then we can go home, and eat, and get some sleep. I got dinner from a friend and it’s really good. There’s bulgogi and everything… Hyung?”

Jimin had bowed his head until his hair fell in front of his eyes, shrinking further into himself. Bewildered, Jungkook stepped forward but froze when Jimin cringed back. He turned his head away, towards the unicorn, and Jungkook saw a flash of bottle-green irises unnatural and overbright.

“We can’t,” Jimin whispered, and shame rolled down the skin of his mouth. “We can’t go back. I’m sorry.”

Jungkook blinked once, twice. The words took their time to sink in. And then they did, and bit down hard with electric-white teeth so that dread began to trickle down his spine as he whispered, “What?”

“You can’t go home,” Jimin said. He looked up and slitted eyes pleaded for Jungkook to understand. “We…We couldn’t stay there. The landlady, she—”

“ _What?_ ” Jungkook’s voice rose in pitch. Wide eyes darted between Jimin and the unicorn, who stood silent and statue-still. Every potential thought turned up blank, the threat of a panic attack looming over his head like an executioner’s axe. _No, no, that’s not what he’s saying. It can’t be. It can’t be it can’t be it can’t be._ “Hyung, what are you telling me? What about her? What — What happened?”

But some part of him already knew, which was the worst thing about it all.

“Jungkook, please — please don’t be angry. I didn’t mean—” Jimin’s face twisted in distress. He kept kneading pale fingers into the flesh of his arms, over and over. “I-It was an accident, I swear. I… We…We were _talking_ and she just…overheard me.”

Jungkook’s blood ground to a halt mid-flow. A ringing echoed in his ears, tinny and faint. Beyond it, Jimin’s voice filtered through in pieces, explaining how the landlady had barged inside the apartment to find Jimin and the unicorn hiding there. How she’d chased them both out of the complex. How she’d told them that Jungkook had three days to pack up and move out. Jungkook couldn’t breathe. _No, this can’t be happening, this_ can’t _,_ _no, nononononono_ —

“You got me evicted.”

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispered. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Kookie, I didn’t mean for that to happen. I just, I…”

“You got me evicted,” Jungkook echoed, louder this time and uncaring of how Jimin flinched at his tone. “You got me evicted. You got me kicked out of my _home_.”

Jimin couldn’t speak. Couldn’t meet Jungkook’s eyes; had he been in his cat form, his ears would surely be pinned back and cowering. As it were, the only thing he could manage was a near-inaudible exhale of, “I’m so, so sorry…”

But Jungkook couldn’t even hear him anymore.

“Hyung, you — you — I told you to— That was the only place I had to _stay!_ ” he shrieked. There was no anger in his voice, however: only a raw panic that gripped him tight, and shook him until his entire frame vibrated with tremors, and he couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t move, either, but he couldn’t stop _shaking_. This was all too _much_. Words gushed from his mouth, stumbled over themselves so that he kept yelling and stammering almost too fast for his brain to catch up. “I needed to do so much, so, _so much_ to get into that place and for what? For what?! I don’t have anywhere else to live! I can’t leech off of my friends! I can’t stay in the university dorms, because I can’t keep my magic a secret when so many people see me every single day, when I can’t, can’t, I can’t _fucking_ control when it comes, and when, when it goes, and whatever bullshit happens when it does! W-Where am I supposed to go now? What am I supposed to do?! Wh— What—”

The words kept pouring out. The words wouldn’t stop. Jungkook couldn’t stop.

Jimin stared at him, long and stunned. Jungkook’s head spun, vision wavering dark along the tops and edges. Air rushed to and from his lungs too fast to be anything but dizzying. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard, they ached from the inside out. Jungkook had the vague impression that he had crouched on the ground, hunched into a ball — that tears were brimming in the shapeshifter’s cat-eyes, who knelt and tried to either plead with or console him. A ripple of ensuing guilt made Jungkook sick to his stomach, but he gasped and panted, lips still mouthing silently, unable to focus on anything but trying to _breathe breathe breathe_ —

“Jungkook.” Jimin’s voice cracked from somewhere far, far away. “Somebody— Somebody’s coming.”

And then Jungkook heard footsteps patter into earshot before a shadow fell across his eyes, and streetlights gilded the edges of a worried face and mango-orange hair.

“Jungkookie, is that you? I heard you yelling. Oh. _Oh_ — Kook-ah, hey, look, it’s me. It’s Hoseok. Breathe, Kook-ah, you’re okay. I got you.”

He was trying, he was trying so hard. Jungkook scrabbled and grabbed at Hoseok’s arms where they rose to hold him. Bare skin felt hot under his palms and Jungkook felt Hoseok hum from somewhere in his chest. Callused fingers massaged his shoulders lightly. Hoseok kept talking and the sound buoyed him better than any lifevest would’ve managed. He clung to it with equal desperation.

“Shh, shh, you’re all right. It’s gonna be over soon, okay? Tell me what you need, Kookie. Is there anything you need?”

Jungkook flailed and gasped for air. “Hyung,” he managed to wheeze. “I can’t… Can’t b-brea…”

“Ah, okay, okay. Here, watch me and copy what I do: inhale for four seconds. Hold for four. Then exhale for four. You know about that, don’t you…? Yeah, just like that, good job…!”

Four. Four seconds. Again, again. Jungkook clutched Hoseok’s arms and tried to follow along with Hoseok’s deep, even breaths. The older boy continued to murmur encouragement and soft little comforts ( _“You’re doing great, I’m so proud”_ ) and a tiny part of Jungkook’s brain wondered if Hoseok had had experience with this before. He seemed to know exactly what to do: steadier than an island in the midst of a stormy ocean, soothing as he ran a hand over Jungkook’s back and whispered that it was just an attack, _it’ll end soon, Kook-ah, I promise_.

Several minutes ticked by. Jungkook could feel his lungs easing, no longer feeling so cramped and constricted; his breaths evened out to the point where he could inhale and exhale without the risk of choking. One hand crushed Hoseok’s in a viselike grip. However, the older boy didn’t seem bothered. He merely smiled and smoothed back Jungkook’s sweaty hair.

“There we go,” he said. “Isn’t that better? How do you feel now, Jungkookie?”

Jungkook shivered and swallowed hard. Hoseok knelt in front of him, goosebumps standing along brown arms. His feet were shod in sandals, and his pajama pants and tank top looked too thin for the cold breeze whistling through their hair. Yet Hoseok had nothing but warm concern in his eyes as he gazed at Jungkook.

“O-Okay… I feel better now,” Jungkook stuttered, feeling the tops of his ears grow hot. Hoseok smiled and rubbed the younger boy’s wrist reassuringly. It was a gentle touch and Jungkook found himself relaxing into it. He blinked eyes that had long-adjusted to the alleyway dimness, then startled and furrowed his brow.

“Where’s Jimin-hyung?”

“Who?” Hoseok asked, looking up.

“Jimin-hyung. He was standing right in front of me when you came.”

Surprised, Hoseok turned to glance over his shoulder at the spot Jungkook indicated, and the younger boy felt his hand jolt a bit. But the next instant Hoseok’s hand went slack and he turned around again, this time with an amused heart-shaped grin.

“Ahh, do you mean this friend?” Hoseok shuffled to the side and gestured towards the shadow huddled against the concrete wall. “Is he yours? He keeps staring at you.”

Jungkook’s lips parted. Jimin — or the tortoiseshell animal that was him — stared back with gold-veined eyes. The tip of a long tail twitched; the cat’s body bunched into a bundle of muscle and mottled-brown fur so tense that it trembled all over, claws digging into the ground. Triangle ears pinned flat against its skull. Glittering hard irises watched Jungkook: wide and unblinking, and faintly damp. The green of them had shrunk down to a thin ring around the gaping pupil.

Why had Jimin changed forms? Confused, Jungkook shuffled upright and tried to hold out a hand. “Jimin?” he tried, tentative, but the cat jerked back and let out a horrible noise from somewhere low in its throat, like a high and drawn-out moan of pain. The sound was one of such clear distress that Jungkook backed away at once. The cat withdrew as well, sidling out of his reach. Dark fur bristled up and down its spine. Those glowing eyes shifted from Jungkook to Hoseok and back, and suddenly Jungkook remembered what Jimin had said.

_I’m no good with humans, Jungkook._

“Hyung,” he pleaded, and disregarded the weird look Hoseok shot at him. “It’s okay. This is Hoseok-hyung. I told you about him.”

Fangs glinted where its mouth opened slightly. Cat-Jimin didn’t move a muscle and so Jungkook reached for it again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice now hushed and upset. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. It wasn’t your fault. I know that.”

The cat bared needle teeth this time, but its eyes turned dim and sad, and after a great length of time it half-rose from its pose near to the ground. Bloody footprints marked where it had crouched. It crept and crept forward, until at last Jungkook could curl his hands around the cat’s spine where it crawled into his lap. Then silver hooves rang on the pavement as the unicorn emerged, looking over his companions, and Hoseok heard it and glanced up. Then he did a double-take.

“Um.” Hoseok gawked and grabbed Jungkook by the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt your moment with Kitty, but is that a _horse_?”

 _Of course it’s not_ , Jungkook wanted to say, but he turned to find Hoseok gaping at the glowing white beast whose ears twitched in annoyance (a horse, indeed). Jungkook took one look at Hoseok’s wide eyes and knew that, despite everything that had happened tonight, Hoseok couldn’t recognize the unicorn for what he truly was.

“He sees and hears me not,” said the unicorn, eyes as dark and unsettled as an abyss of water. “Some part of him doubts, and disbelieves, still, and so he is blind even as he gazes upon me.”

“You calling a cat _hyung_ , I can deal with that, sure. That’s fine,” Hoseok was muttering half under his breath. “But that is a freaking horse, in the neighborhood of Wonhyoro, in an alleyway beside my _house_. Yeah, mm-hm, ‘kay. This is normal.”

“Hoseok! There you are!”

The cat in Jungkook’s arms jumped at the shout, and all the inhabitants of the alleyway turned to see Namjoon and Yoongi rushing towards them. Namjoon puffed, padded jacket thrown over a shirt that had clearly been shucked on with great haste, considering how it was inside-out; Yoongi trailed close behind, grimness set into his mouth. He spotted Hoseok and Jungkook’s shocked expressions, whereupon his face split into a mirthless grin.

“Surprise, bitches,” he said. “It’s the rest of the musketeers.”

Then they saw the unicorn.

Namjoon skidded to a stop just outside the mouth of the alleyway. He gaped, dark eyes bugging out. “Wh— What the hell?” he sputtered. He looked first at Hoseok who waved both hands in wild dismissal of any and all idea regarding what was going on, then at Jungkook. Namjoon guffawed then, the sound bursting like a mulberry between his teeth. “What, did you decide you wanted to bring your _pets_? Were we that bad for company?” he laughed, tossing humor up into the air in order to mask his reeling bafflement. Jungkook sputtered and frowned, face ablaze.

“No! They’re not mine!”

“Huh, yeah, guess not.” Namjoon pointed at the cat huddled in his lap and grinned a tad too wide. “I mean, they do say cats own you and not the other way around. Not that I’d know, never been much of a cat person. Or a horse person, either. I always preferred dogs, you know? Dogs are great. Dunno about horses. Mother of _fuck_ , that is a _horse_.”

“Hoo boy,” Jungkook heard Hoseok sigh beside his ear. “I think you’ve broken him.”

“ _I heard that_ ,” Namjoon retorted, highkey offended. “And I am not broken, I am _processing_. Because that is a magician, and that is his cat, and that is a whole entire fucking horse, holy shit? This whole night’s been a trip and by now I don’t even know what the hell is even happening anymore. _Fuck_.”

“Yeah, well,” Jungkook said, scowling. “He’s not actually a horse. He’s magic, just like me.”

“Say what now.” Hoseok rounded on the unicorn, this time squinting at him as if that would help him see clearer. “H-Ha, Kook-ah… You’re kidding us, right?”

“I’m really not.”

“He looks like a normal enough horse to me,” said Namjoon. The unicorn scoffed and flicked his tail. Jungkook puffed out his cheeks in exasperation.

“I’m telling you he’s _not a horse_. Hyung, I’m _serious_.”

“Fine, fine, we believe you.” But neither Namjoon nor Hoseok did, not really, because their eyes remained clouded and the unicorn continued to be as invisible to them as their own voices. “Yoongi-hyung, what do you think?” Namjoon asked and turned to the older boy, expectant.

But Yoongi didn’t answer.

Amidst the cloudy silence that followed, Jungkook lifted his head to discover the man’s eyes huge and shiny-black with the beginnings of tears. The unicorn’s horn glimmered inside them and Yoongi opened his mouth as if he wished to speak, or to shout, but then swallowed and closed it once more. Moonlight and dull streetlamps leached the color from his face. Every shallow gasp fluttered in his throat, in his ribs.

“You?” he croaked at last — and the hoarse hush of the word broke the sky and Jungkook felt the earth flip under him once he understood that out of all of them there, Yoongi saw. _Yoongi saw._ “But…why… It can’t be…”

The unicorn peered at him, spun of gossamer and stars, standing less than ten feet from the man. Pale right-hand fingers clicked and stuttered against one another. Yoongi didn’t seem to even notice.

In no more than a whisper: “Where have you been?”

The unicorn remained silent, not moving an inch. At his stillness, Yoongi’s face began to crumple into itself and then swiftly, steadily, his face flushed red while his bad hand clenched as much as it was able, and those black, black eyes filled with the blackest of _rage_.

“Where have you been? Where have you _been?_ ” he shouted. “Damn you to hell, _where the fuck have you been?!_ ”

 

 

(One by one, the clouds winked out the stars. The darkness of the city grew darker still.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.  
> In the next chapter, a peek into Yoongi's past, at long last...
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and for your endless support! <33

**Author's Note:**

> [story aesthetic](https://vietbluefic.tumblr.com/post/177142904153/butterfly-kisses-and-narcissus-by-vietbluefic-in)
> 
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